


A Reason To Fall

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, season five, slow build relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 67,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fighting off the angels at Heavens 'Green Room', Castiel wakes in hospital, his grace all but gone. In his less-than-angelic state, he makes his way to Sioux Falls, and soon finds himself re-evaluating the connection he has with Dean.<br/>[NOTE: this fic is a WIP and has not been updated since late 2012. If my muse lets me, I do want to finish it, but I doubt it'll happen any time soon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. awake

Castiel's head was throbbing.  
  
Awareness had faded in slowly. A dull ache in the center of his head radiated out, and for a moment all he could see was the bright red glow of Jimmy's eyelids. An infuriating itch on his ankle made him twitch his foot, pressing it down and rubbing it against the smooth cotton of what he presumed was a bed sheet. What he was doing in a bed was beyond him, but his reasons for being there took second place to the fact that he was unable to open his eyes.  
  
Something was seriously wrong.  
  
He tried again to open his eyes, but they resisted, and he took a long, faltering breath. The air rushing down to his lungs caught in his throat, which felt dry and raw, and he had the uncomfortable-if not slightly painful-sensation of a plastic tube which had, weeks earlier, been pushed through his nostril and down to his stomach.   
  
Every couple of seconds a high-pitched beep sounded from someplace nearby, driving through his aching skull like a nail, and the strong odor of antiseptic permeated the air. It mingled with the sickly smell of burnt flesh, blood and fabric detergent, and at once he knew where he was. He had spent enough time in places like this, seen and unseen, to know those sounds and smells in an instant. A hospital.  
  
Finally, he forced his heavy eyelids open.  
  
Even once the sleep-induced blur had gone, his vision was dull. The room around him was faded out at the edges like an old photograph, and he had the distinct impression of looking at the world through a slightly dusty window.   
  
The lights on the ceiling blared down on him, and he squinted, the fluorescent glare intensifying the pounding in his skull. He tried to take a look around. His stiff neck made it difficult, and he told himself not to dwell on why his neck should hurt at all as he took in his surroundings.  
  
He was alone.  
  
The room was small, walls coated in bright yellow paint that seemed somehow too cheery, and along the wall to his left were two windows which looked out over a sea of rooftops. The wall on his right was almost entirely made of glass, and a constant stream of people rushed past. No-one looked in.  
  
As he leaned to the side, trying to see further out into the busy corridor, he felt an unpleasant tugging and raised one hand to feel at the tube that ran through his nose, and as he did he noticed a flash of blue on his wrist. He squinted, waiting for the words to come into focus, the messy doctors scrawl even less discernable with his tired eyes. Finally, the letters stopped moving, and the paper band identified him as DOE, JOHN.   
  
He recognized the name as a placeholder, and wondered what he should tell the doctors when they inevitably came to check on him.  


Dean would know, he thought, and immediately his eyes widened in panic. Dean.

  
He had no idea how much time had passed since he had carved the sigils into his chest and sent himself, along with four other angels, as far from the beautiful room in California as he could.   
  
In the meantime, anything could have happened. Images of Michael and Lucifer tearing through the planet burned in his minds eye.  
  
It had taken him too long to remember, and he was instantly furious with himself. How long had he been awake? Five minutes? He had been awake almost five minutes before he had even remembered.  


He could be dead.

  
What if once Castiel was gone, another angel had come and forced him to say yes?   
  
Fear ate at his core like acid as a million awful possibilities presented themselves before rationality, finally, mercifully, took over. With a glance out the window, he could see that the Earth had not yet become a war zone. He exhaled slowly. So Dean had said no to Michael.   
  
Before he could stop it, a feeling of warmth and something like pride spread up from his chest and settled in his eyes. Whatever happened, Dean had said no. A wide grin flashed over his face and he wondered briefly if this was one of those rare occasions when it would be okay to break the strict personal space rule that his friend had put in place. He hoped so. He thought a hug would be fitting when he returned. Partly in apology for his doubt in the hunter, and partly because he was relieved (happy?) that Dean was still himself.  
  
Knowing that for the time being the world was intact, Castiel moved to properly sit up and inspect the damage on his vessel, but beyond turning his neck slightly every movement sent flashes of pain through him. This was not a pain he was used to. This felt more visceral somehow. Solid.  
  
Healing himself was rarely something he needed to think of--it generally just happened on its own--so that there was any pain at all was something to be concerned about. The fact that even with his attention focused on the pain, willing it to subside, willing his vessels scars to heal, it refused to leave--that was downright terrifying.  
  
He took in a deep breath and reached out with his grace, letting it unfurl from his center and reach out into the ether. If he could at least hear the other angels, maybe he would be able to work out what was happening. But the ether was like a fog, and what he heard was not the clear song of angelic prayer so much as it was a faint whisper too quiet to interpret.  
  
With a sinking feeling in his chest, Castiel tried to ignore the voice in his head that said, maybe this is how falling starts.  
  
In this strange room, in this strange town, without the songs of his brothers or the company of the few humans he had come to know as friends, Castiel had never felt so alone. He resolved himself to find Sam and Dean, as soon as possible, and decided that the best place to start would be Bobby's house.  
  
Whatever was left of his grace wasn't anywhere near enough to send him back to Sioux Falls, but he tried anyway. Even if he could only move himself a little way in the right direction, it would be preferable to being here. He focused what little energy he had, trying harder than ever before to concentrate his grace like a beam of light through a magnifying glass.   
  
It was a mistake.   
  
The exertion was too much. His head spun, his vision blurred, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.  


* * *

  
When he came to twenty-eight hours later a fuzzy shape was moving over him, apparently inspecting the state of the cuts on his chest. He stared up at it through bleary, half-closed eyes, blinking as it slowly came into focus. A woman in a white coat. A doctor. She had her head turned away from him and was talking to someone he couldn't see.  


"I'll need you to replace these bandages."

  
"Yes, doctor."

  
One set of footsteps moved away and out the door, and Castiel tried to sit up. The sudden movement pulled at the tube in his throat. He grimaced. He still hadn't healed. A little part of him quietly wondered if his grace was completely gone. He pushed the unwelcome thought to the back of his mind, but the more he tried to tell himself that he was overreacting, that he hadn't fallen, that he couldn't have fallen, the harder it became to believe.  


My grace is not gone, he thought. Just tapped out.

  
He opened his eyes again to see the doctor standing at the foot of the bed, still turned away, making notes on a clipboard. The world still lacked a great deal of its color, but now Castiel considered the possibility that this was merely the limit of human vision. He wondered how they could stand it, all this dull color and physical pain and hunger and thirst. His mouth was bone dry.  


"Thirs-"

  
The feeding tube that traveled through his right nostril shifted again in his throat as he tried to speak. He felt as though he were choking. He hadn't even needed air before, and now he was choking. He grasped the tube and pulled, coughing and gagging as he wrenched it free. The knowledge that he needed the oxygen was more painful than the sensation, and he felt a prickling in his eyes as he clutched at his throat.  
  
The doctor, startled by the sound, turned to see him doubled over in pain. She rushed to him, and with a hand on his shoulder, rolled him onto his side.  


"Lay back, you're all right."

  
She smiled the kind of reassuring smile usually reserved for dealing with madmen who you don't want to upset. Castiel saw a glimmer of concern in her eyes that had little to do with his health.  


She thinks I might be dangerous.

  
He wanted to tell her not to worry, that in a world like this one he was the least of her worries. He wanted to say that after a little rest he'd be good as new and on his way, but the coughing fit had left him exhausted. She handed him a glass of cool water, and after barely three sips, he lay his head back on the thin hospital pillow and slept dreamlessly.  


* * *

  
The following morning, the doctor returned.   
  
Castiel had awoken at sunrise, and had been hoping he would be able to get out of the bed without further injury. As soon as he tried, he felt his legs begin to give way, and sat heavily back down.  
  
In the few hours that had passed, he had been wriggling his toes, willing the muscles back into action. It had taken time, but what was left of his grace seemed to slowly be reversing the atrophy. The fact that every second of effort seemed to pull his grace further away from him did not escape his notice.  
  
Now, as the doctor inspected his chest, he knew that if nothing else he could stand.   
  
That was something.  


"How are you feeling today?"

  
Castiel cleared his throat, worried that any attempt to talk would start the coughing again. He answered slowly, quietly.  


"Thirsty," and after a short pause, he added, "hungry."

 

"Someone will be in with food for you soon. How about your head? Your chest? Any pain?"

  
Castiel nodded, frowning as he gingerly rubbed a hand over his chest.  


"A little."

  
It wasn't the intensity of the pain that was bothering him so much as the fact that he had been unable to repair the damage that was causing it. It was more than the physical cuts that were causing him pain--something in his chest was aching, and he didn't want to think about it. He decided to focus on things he could control. He looked at the doctor.  


"How long have I been here?" he asked, and then realizing he had missed another important question, added; "Where am I?"

 

"You're in the General Hospital in New Orleans. We've been looking after you for a little over two weeks." 

The doctor paused, waiting for this to sink in, and Castiel frowned. New Orleans was a far cry from Van Nuys.  


"You were brought in by the men who found you... two fishermen," the doctor continued, "You were on a shrimping boat near Delacroix. Do you remember?"

  
Castiel shook his head and sat up a little straighter, trying to picture the boat, the fishermen. Nothing came. The doctor sat down on the edge of his bed.  


"They said they found you on deck all of a sudden, when they were half an hour away from the shore. You were unconscious, and you had all of these cuts-"

  
She gestured to his chest, and Castiel glanced down at the criss-crossing bandages.  


"You gave them quite a scare. They'll be relieved to hear you've woken up," the doctor smiled warmly, "We all are, actually. Good to see you awake and talking."

  
He looked intently at the doctor and had the distinct sense that she hadn't expected him to wake up at all. He wondered if she would be able to repair the broken parts of his vessel. She seemed competent enough. He imagined it being not dissimilar to Dean fixing the Impala. It was just a matter of locating the faulty part, patching it up and sweet-talking it into working again. He pictured Dean patting the cars hood with grease-stained hands when he had it--her, he reminded himself--running smoothly. His mouth quirked into an unexpected smile as he thought of that, and he wiped it away quickly, embarrassed without quite knowing why.  
  
The doctor, meanwhile, was ticking off her mental checklist. The patient was responding to questions with clear answers. His eyes appeared to be focused. Relaxed. He smiled, but it seemed pained, and that was fitting with a person in his position who was trying to stay positive despite themselves. All healthy behavior. Satisfied that her patient didn't appear to have any serious brain damage, she moved right along. She had a lot of questions.   
  
He had been in the hospital for over two weeks, and they still hadn't identified him. The higher-ups were asking a lot of irritating questions about medical insurance, and she was looking forward to having this particular batch of paperwork sorted. She asked his name, where he was from and what had happened to him.  
  
The more he explained, the more she reconsidered her original diagnosis.  
  
To his credit, Castiel did not tell her that he was an Angel of the Lord or that he had ended up on the boat by momentarily converting his being into a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent and thrusting himself blindly through space.   
  
He did tell her his name was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, though, and the good doctor felt that perhaps that called for further observation.  
  
She left him to his breakfast--a cold, flavorless oatmeal which was likely to be all he could stomach for the time being anyway--and promised to check back on him in an hour. The madman-pacifying smile was back.   
  
Even with his limited grasp of human facial cues, Castiel knew this was a problem.  
  
After the doctor left it didn't take long for him to realize his mistake. The name. He'd chosen one that was far too old, and possibly far too famous. People just weren't called Wolfgang anymore.   
  
He tried to remember one of the aliases that Sam or Dean had used, but failing that came up with one on his own. The next time the doctor came in he gave her the confused expression that always seemed to lead to Dean explaining things to him, and told her his name was Jimmy Winchester.  
  
"I need to call my friend," he paused, thinking she might not understand his meaning, "on the telephone."  
  
After a moment, he added;  
  
"My friend will pay for my hospital stay."  
  
The relief on her face did not go unnoticed.  
  
He'd had a phone in his hand within ten minutes, but once he had it he realized that he didn't actually know Dean's number. He didn't know Sam's number. Or Bobby's, for that matter.   
  
They had all been programmed into the cell phone he'd carried in the breast pocket of his trench coat, and though he had seen Dean's enough times, he had never bothered to memorize it. Beyond the first six digits, he was clueless. He had a feeling there was a seven in it somewhere, though.  
  
He picked up the receiver and flexed his fingers. Starting with all zeroes, he worked his way up until finally, on his 179th attempt, a familiar gruff voice answered.  
  
It had only taken him an hour.


	2. A First Attempt At Being Human

"What, d'you mean you're out of angel mojo?"

Deep down, Castiel knew his grace was all but gone. If he had been in this hospital for as long as the doctors said, it certainly should have returned by now. Instead it was still fading, seeping out of him like blood. If there was any way to avoid the issue he would have, but failing a sudden miracle--which he had a feeling his father would not provide--he was going to need human help to get back to Sioux Falls.

"I'm saying that I am thirsty and my head aches. I have a bug bite that itches no matter how much I scratch it. I'm saying that I'm just incredibly..."

Castiel shook his head, not wanting to say it, even though he had to. Admitting such a massive weakness to Dean felt wrong somehow. He was surprised to find himself humiliated. Almost ashamed.

Almost without pause, Dean's voice came across the line--a half octave higher than usual.

"Human."

It wasn't a question.

Castiel sighed. Without his angelic powers, he was useless. Castiel knew it, and judging by the way Dean sounded, he knew it too. Taking the holy out of the holy tax accountant left you with someone who was less than no help in a fight against an angry drunk, much less the devil himself.

"Wow... sorry."

A knot formed in Castiel's throat. Dean pitied him; it was clear in his voice, but he still needed to get out of this hospital. First things first.

"My point is, I can't go anywhere without money for an aeroplane ride. And food."

After a moment of consideration, he added;

"And more pain medication, ideally."

Castiel rolled his eyes. He tried to understand how he had ended up here, needing medication to heal himself. He was used to treating physical pain as a minor and very temporary inconvenience, and the thought of having to endure it for any extended period of time irritated him to no end. He was above this, or he should have been.

As an angel, asking for help was just downright embarrassing. For a moment he wondered if he had been too presumptuous in his request. He'd not exactly been on good terms with Dean when they'd last seen each other, and he knew the hunter could hold a grudge with more conviction than even Raphael. But his concern was short lived. Dean replied without giving it a second thought, promising that Bobby would send money, and any offense Castiel had taken at being pitied dissipated.

Dean still wanted him there, even though he was useless. The dull pain in his chest was momentarily overwhelmed with an unfamiliar warmth.

"Dean, wait," he paused, considering his words carefully, "You said no to Michael. I owe you an apology."

"Cas... It's okay."

There was a tightness in Dean's voice that made Castiel wince.

The hunter was lying. Feigning forgiveness for some reason that he couldn't grasp. Castiel floundered as something welled up within him, a heavy kind of pressure that made it hard to breathe. Guilt. That was new. Ordinarily--at least, up until he rebelled--Castiel followed all the rules. He followed instructions, to the letter. Anything he did, he did by the will of God, or at least, the will of his superiors, and so no matter what he did he had no reason to be guilty for doing it. He was an agent, an instrument. He could no more feel guilt than a bullet could for tearing through a shoulderblade.

But now... he had hurt Dean, his friend, maybe his only real friend, all on his own. He had reasons, of course, but that didn't stop his stomach from churning at the memory of Dean's face that night in the alleyway. He had gone too far. His disappointment had led to anger, and that had in turn led him to lash out. He knew that he had let his feelings get the better of him, and was more sorry than he could have imagined, but no words he could think of seemed to express this clearly enough.

"You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be."

As far as apologies went, he had a sinking feeling that perhaps this wasn't a particularly good one. But he was at a loss.

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

Dean's reply was stilted and awkward.

Castiel knew he needed to say more, but had no idea where to begin. He wanted more than anything for Dean to forgive him, to respect him, but judging by Dean's voice any chance of real forgiveness was a long way off.

The lump in his throat left his voice thick.

"You're welcome."

Castiel placed the receiver back into its cradle before he could say anything else and glanced around the room, the movement sending a sharp pain from his clavicle to the base of his skull. He tensed his jaw and laid back, waiting.

It was going to take time for Bobby's money to arrive.

This being human thing was getting old fast.

 

Castiel was staring out the window, reaching out into the ether with his mind. He should have heard his brothers and sisters talking, but now there was nothing but silence. Even the whispers were gone. None of them would help him now.

Perhaps Gabriel, he thought.

Before he could process this possibility, heavy footsteps alerted him to the presence of a visitor. He turned to see a beer-bellied man in a plaid shirt standing in the doorway, holding a thick yellow envelope. He narrowed his eyes at Castiel and stepped back out of the doorway, checking the room number before coming back in. He had a pronounced limp in his right leg and the lines around his eyes were those of a man who has had just about enough of everything.

"You're Castiel?"

The angel sat up a little straighter and nodded warily.

"Huh," the man frowned as he shuffled toward Castiels bed, holding out the envelope for him to take, "You don't look all that holy to me."

Castiel tried to ignore the pang of resentment that shot through him and took the envelope, glancing inside. It contained $100 in cash, a plane ticket, a fake ID--he recognized the photograph in it as one taken at Bobby's house some months earlier--and a detailed list of things he should probably not say to airline staff if he wanted to have an uneventful trip. He glanced up at the man.

"You're Bobby's friend?"

The man snorted.

"I hate the bastard," he twisted his mouth in distaste as though even talking about Bobby was an unpleasant experience, "but I owe him."

Castiel tilted his head in question and the man gestured to his leg.

"Got myself into a nasty situation with a pissed off shifter about ten years back. Would have ended up with a lot worse than a limp if he hadn't been there," he frowned, "don't mean I have to like him, though. Anyway. The bill has been paid, and I'm meant to take you as far as the plane."

He made his way to the door and gestured down the hall.

"I'll be out here when you're ready. Make it fast. You have to be at the airport in an hour."

The hunter limped out of sight and Castiel pushed himself to his feet, relieved to finally be leaving the hospital.

His trench coat was folded up on top of his shoes and the rest of his clothes in a drawer beside the bed, and he started the agonizingly slow process of dressing himself the human way. As he dressed he wondered how likely it was that Gabriel would help him if he called. How likely it was that he'd even be able to help.

Regardless, I have to try, he thought.

His fingers stumbled over the buttons on his shirt, but eventually he managed to match them all to their corresponding holes. The tie, though... the tie was infuriating. He shoved it into the pocket of his coat as he walked out of the room, deciding that as soon as he arrived in Sioux Falls, he'd have Bobby help him find the requisite materials to contact his brother.

There was no way he'd just stand by as his grace drained away.

Not when so much depended on it.


	3. The Angel In Flight

The plane banked to the right and Castiel turned his eyes to the window, clutching his knees with clammy hands, his knuckles white. Far below, a dark line of water wound through the trees like a great snake. He swallowed and pressed his teeth together as he felt a cold line of sweat running down the back of his neck.

He hadn't seen the Earth from such a height in a long time. Through human eyes it was still beautiful, but like everything else, dulled. He decided he didn't care for it. It probably didn't help that he was looking at it through 10 inches of acrylic and glass, or that an unexpected panic had crept into his chest as soon as the plane had taken off and settled there like a weight in his lungs.

He could see why Dean hated flying so much. It certainly wasn't the height, or even a concern about the mechanics of the aircraft, but a matter of control. His life--which was more fragile than he wanted to think about--was completely at the mercy of a human. A stranger. Granted, that stranger knew what they were doing, and there were countless fail safes in place should something go wrong, but still... putting that much trust in someone without knowing a thing about them--it set his teeth on edge.

As the plane leveled back out, he turned his gaze back to the headrest in front of him, focusing on a loose strand of hair that had attached itself to the fabric and trying to steady his pulse. It pounded in his chest like a fist, drawing his attention to the hollow feeling that seemed to be intensifying at his core with every minute. Panic threatened to overcome him, and he tried to think of better times. The eternal Tuesday afternoon in heaven. The sound of the ocean. Sitting in the Impala with Dean, driving to Maine to track down Raphael. He focused in on the memory.

He remembered the sound of the engine, the way he could feel it as much as he could hear it, rumbling away. The cool breeze on his face through the half-open window, and the way ruffled his hair. The smell of gun oil and grease, salt and sweat. Dean's fingers tapping on the steering wheel, keeping a steady rhythm as music rang out through the speakers. The way Dean would turn and smile at him every now and then. He thought of that the most. Dean smiling. Wide and honest. It was a rare thing, he knew, and he was grateful to have seen it.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and though he had stopped the panic, he still didn't move a muscle for the rest of the flight.

When the plane finally touched down in Sioux Falls, he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and felt an ache in his jaw. He had been gritting his teeth for the better part of an hour.

In the terminal, Castiel found a phone booth, and as he stepped inside he opened the yellow envelope that had contained his ticket and looked through the papers. At the bottom of the page of tips on how not to draw undue attention to himself on a plane he found Bobby's phone number. He lifted the grubby metal receiver from its cradle and held it to his ear as he began to dial.

A slightly robotic female voice sounded through the beeps.

PLEASE INSERT COINS.

Frowning, Castiel rummaged through his pockets. All the money he had was two fifty dollar bills. He thumbed the coin slot on the telephone and looked around the terminal. The smell of hot food hit his nose with force as his eyes landed on a pizzeria. Almost instantly his mouth began to water as he remembered the taste of meat and cheese, and he was no longer sure if it was just some form of Jimmy's memory that lingered in his vessel or an actual taste he had developed himself.

He approached the counter where a gangly teenager leaned, yawning.

"Hello."

The teenager stood up straight and spoke in the monotone of someone who has been saying the exact same thing all day.

"Good afternoon, Sir. Can I take your order?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, focusing on the menu on the wall. He wanted something with cheese, that much he knew. Settling on the thing that looked the most like a burger, he looked back at the teenager.

"A slice of meat lovers pizza," he paused, "with extra cheese."

The teenager nodded and pressed a couple of buttons on the cash register.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Five ninety-five."

Castiel handed him one of the crumpled fifties and the kid fumbled with his change. Finally he counted it out and handed it back over the counter, along with the slice. Castiel was still chewing on the crust when he returned to the phone booth. Bobby answered on the third ring.

"This'd better be important."

"I assure you, it is."

"Cas? Are you back in town yet?"

"I just landed," Castiel said through a mouthful of crust as he wiped the grease from his fingers over the leg of his pants, "I hope I never have to travel by aeroplane again."

"I take it you're still human, then?"

"Unfortunately. But we may be able to fix that," he swallowed the last of the pizza, "Do you have supplies for an Enochian summoning spell?"

"Should be able to rustle some up. What are you thinking?"

There was the sound of wheels squeaking and paper being shuffled as Bobby flicked through his books.

"Only an angel can restore my grace."

The flicking stopped.

"The spell's the one with anise and valerian?"

"Yes."

"Got it. Hope it works. Those two idjits have gone off to fight Pestilence on their own and I don't like their chances."

The unpleasant feeling in his chest came back, and Castiel suppressed a groan as his heart stuttered. Inwardly he begged his Father to keep them safe, but on some level he felt certain that He wasn't listening.

"How do I get to your house?"

After he waited for Bobby to check the bus line, Castiel hung up the phone and hurried out of the terminal, following a series of signs which eventually led him to a bus stop. He sat down and waited. And waited.

He tried not to think about Sam and Dean facing Pestilence on their own, but he couldn't stop the images from flashing behind his eyes. The two hunters coughing, retching, dying. Powerless. It wouldn't so much be a fight as it would be laying in a room while Pestilence stood over them, smiling, as their insides rotted away.

By the time the bus arrived, he was so pale and sick with worry that the driver almost didn't let him on for fear he would vomit. She watched him warily in her rear view for most of the journey. It wasn't until he caught sight of Bobby's street 35 minutes later that a little of the pallor left his face. He'd be summoning Gabriel in less than an hour. As he stepped from the bus and walked toward the rusted gates of Singer Auto Salvage, he felt a twinge of hope.

Soon, he thought, I'll be myself again.

And, honestly, he really did try to believe it.


	4. Welcome Back To Singer Auto

Since waking up human, Castiel had felt a range of emotions that never seemed to make it out of the negative spectrum. Pain, fear, guilt, shame, loss, panic. He was still waiting for even one positive emotion to break through, but somehow he felt that it would not happen until he knew that Dean and Sam were safe, regardless of whether or not he managed to get his grace back.

He didn't know what he would do if Gabriel wouldn't help. He tried not to think about it. The scars from the banishing sigil he had cut into his chest itched, and as he made his way up Bobby's driveway, the gravel crunching loud beneath his shoes, he felt a surge of hope within. It was possible that his brother would not want to help him; the roguish archangel had never been one to put his own life at risk for anyone else, and so the likelihood of him essentially helping Castiel to rebel was very low. But Gabriel was the only shot he had, and so, though he knew it was foolish to put all of ones proverbial eggs into one very flimsy basket, Castiel allowed his hope to grow.

In the familiar surrounds of the salvage yard, it was easy to imagine that everything would work out. He reached the door of Bobby's house, and pressed a finger to the doorbell.

Somewhere inside he heard the bell ring, followed by the dull thud of a pile of books being knocked over and then Bobby's voice, muffled and distant.

" _Balls_."

A squeaking sound signaled the approach of Bobby's wheelchair behind the door, and it swung open. Bobby's reaction told him in half a second flat how bad he looked. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, a combination of walking from the bus in the heat and the mild panic attack he had experienced on the plane, and after almost three weeks being fed through a tube, his cheeks were a little hollow. Add to that the dark circles under his eyes and the rumpled state of his clothes, and he was a mess. An expression of sheer pity and concern flickered across the hunters face before he could hide his shock, and Castiel tried not to let it get to him.

"Well, you look like death warmed up."

Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"Death is quite a bit taller than me."

Bobby opened his mouth to say something, but thought the better of it. He wheeled himself back out of the way and Castiel walked in to the house, looking all around.

"Is the spell ready to-?"

"Everything's in the library," Bobby closed the door and turned to face Castiel, dropping his voice a little as if not wanting to ask, "I've still got some holy oil if you think we'll need it?"

Castiel considered this, but decided against it. Trapping his brother wouldn't help, not in the long run.

"No. Gabriel doesn't respond well to threats."

Bobby's eyes grew wide. He stared at Castiel.

"Gabriel?"

"If anyone's going to help me, it'll be him. All the others want the apocalypse to happen."

Bobby swallowed and looked at Castiel with a kind of pity that sent a wave of nausea through the angel.

"Cas... Gabriel's dead."

All the air seemed to rush out of the room at once. Castiel clutched the doorframe, as the words sunk in. Gabriel was dead. Allowing himself to hope had been a mistake, he saw that now. It had briefly seemed to be a positive emotion, but it had turned out to be deceptive and dangerous. He had tried instead to focus on solid things. Getting to Bobby's had been one. Performing the summoning ritual was the next. After that it had all depended on Gabriel. But now...

"Are you sure?"

"Lucifer killed him. With one of the angel blades."

His last hope, his only hope-gone. He chewed anxiously on the inside of his cheek, eyes distant. Slowly he started to shake his head.

"No. No, he might be... he might have faked it," Castiel's eyes darted back to Bobby, "He's done it before."

Bobby didn't look convinced.

"The boys were there, Cas. He's gone."

"I said _no_."

He stared Bobby down, his eyes watering, but whether with rage or sadness he didn't know. Bobby didn't move. After a moment Castiel spoke again, his voice quiet and uneven.

"I still have to try."

Bobby nodded.

"Okay. I hope you're right. Let's get started."

Bobby led Castiel into the library, and the angel set about clearing a space on the coffee table. His hands were shaking slightly as he sorted through the herbs that Bobby had collected, and though he told himself it was just fatigue, he couldn't shake the feeling that things were only going to get worse.

* * *

In the half-light of dusk, Bobby wheeled himself behind his desk and poured the tail end of a bottle of cheap whiskey into a chipped glass. He downed it in one go, watching Castiel warily as the angel gingerly placed a metal bowl in the centre of a chalk circle on the coffee table. He looked exhausted. Haggard, even. It was downright unsettling. Bobby returned the glass to the table and cleared his throat.

"Is that it?"

Castiel threw a few more green sprigs of valerian into the bowl, along with the rest of the herbs and something called _vinum transitum_ which he'd had to have delivered from a contact at a nearby morgue.

"We just need to light it."

Bobby dug around in the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out a book of matches. Wheeling himself back out into the centre of the room, he held handed them to Castiel, who struck a match three times before it lit. When it hit the contents of the bowl, a flash of red flame burst up for a split second, before fading back. The leaves smoldered.

Before long Bobby's living room stank to high heaven, which, considering the reason for the spell, actually made a lot of sense. Thick smoke wound lazily from the bowl. Castiel stared down at it, his nose slightly scrunched as the pungent smoke found its way to his nostrils. It was a cloying smell, but it burned. The stench was so powerful that he imagined that it probably had no trouble finding its way through the ether and into Heaven itself. It'd be hard to miss.

"You could have just called, brother."

Castiel looked up. Standing in the doorway behind Bobby, was Gabriel. Catching the look of relief on Castiel's face, he smirked.

"Thought I was dead, I suppose? You're lucky I was bored enough to come."

The archangel grinned at his brother for half a second before a look of concern flashed across his face. His eyes narrowed.

"Cassie, your grace is..." his voice trailed off and he took a step toward Castiel, tilting his head slightly as if it would offer him some further insight, running his eyes over the younger angel, "Castiel, what happened to you?"

Castiel glanced away, immediately ashamed of his humanity. Staring out the window, he shook his head slowly.

"I don't know. I used the banishing sigil in Van Nuys about three weeks ago, woke up the day before yesterday in a hospital in New Orleans and my grace... it..."

Castiel tensed his jaw. He felt a stinging in his eyes and let out a heavy breath as he fought to keep some form of composure.

"I couldn't hear anyone," he paused, breathing deep, "I still can't."

Gabriel looked at Bobby as if asking for an explanation, and the hunter just shrugged. The archangel turned back to his brother.

"I figured you just weren't talking."

"Technically I'm not," Castiel glanced at his brother, "well, not to them, anyway. I thought you might still..."

He paused, trying to think of the best way to ask. Gabriel beat him to it.

"You thought I would help you."

Castiel nodded and turned back to the window, not wanting to look his brother in the eye. He didn't miss the phrasing. You thought. The little part of him that had suspected that he was all but dead to his brothers and sisters in Heaven said the words over and over in his mind, and he tried to shut it out to no avail. You thought, you thought, you thought. Involuntarily he pictured Dean at the mercy of Pestilence, unable to fight. The thought of the hunter so helpless made him feel physically ill. He realised how much hope he'd still had that Gabriel would help him, and he felt incredibly stupid for wasting so much time on summoning him when he should have been finding another way to destroy the horseman.

His mouth went dry, and his voice came out small and pleading.

"I hoped you would want to."

Bobby sat up straighter; hearing the angel so defeated was not something he had ever anticipated, and the pain in his voice was almost unbearable. Gabriel took a step nearer to Castiel, who still stood at the window with his gaze fixed firmly at some point on the horizon, as if steadying himself.

"Trust me Cassy, if I could, I would," Gabriel's usual mischevious self was a distant memory as he rested a hand on his brothers hunched shoulder, "really. If you knew where it was I might be able to do something, but without it..."

The honesty in his voice only served to send Castiel into a deeper despair. Of all his brothers and sisters, Gabriel was the least serious, so hearing this tone from him seldom led to good things. He had hoped beyond anything that Gabriel would be able to fix him, that somehow he would be able to locate his grace and find a way to put him back together. But he saw now that it was not going to happen. He was mortal. He was nothing.

But Gabriel had said he wanted to help. There might still be something he could do. Castiel might have been weak, but Gabriel was still strong. Castiel turned to face his brother, trying to stifle the bubble of hope before he got let down again but it was still evident on his face. His eyes shone with it.

"Dean and Sam have gone to fight Pestilence."

"With what?"

Castiel glanced at Bobby, who shrugged.

"Ruby's demon knife. And I think Dean had his shotgun."

Gabriel turned to look at Bobby, blinking slowly, before pressing his eyes closed. He brought one hand up to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it as though he had a migrane. After a moment he opened his eyes and looked at the hunter as though he were an idiot.

"A knife?"

Bobby fidgeted in his chair a little, uncomfortable under the glare of the archangel. He muttered almost under his breath.

"...and a shotgun."

"Oh, I'm sorry. A knife and a shotgun. A shotgun makes all the difference. They'll be fine! I bet they'll do a great job."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and laughed bitterly.

"My only concern is that maybe it'll be a little difficult for Dean to aim a gun while his insides are putrefying."

A vein in Castiel's neck twitched. The image was too similar to the one that had been running through his mind ever since the airport, and hearing someone else say it out loud made it feel too possible, too real. His face paled and he leant heavily against the window frame as his pulse raced. Gabriel saw his reaction, and a knowing look spread over his face. A thought process that would have taken hours in anyone else flickered through his mind in under five seconds, and he came to a decision.

"Basically, on their own, they're screwed. So I guess I'll have to go save the S.O.B.'s," Gabriel rubbed his hands together, looking from Castiel to Bobby expectantly, "Want to point me in the right direction?"

Before he knew it, Castiel was hugging his brother. To hell with personal space, he thought. This was important.


	5. Serenity Valley

The hug got uncomfortable, for Bobby at least.

The two angels, not being all that used to hugging, weren't entirely clear on the amount of time that should pass. Thirty seconds went by. Then a minute. Finally, Bobby's louder-than-usual throat clearing broke through and Castiel pulled away, more than a little embarrassed. Gabriel smirked at his brother.

"Wow, they weren't kidding."

Castiel tilted his head in question and Gabriel shrugged, a knowing look in his eye.

"The others have been talking. You're really attached to this one."

Nodding absently, Castiel picked up an old dagger from Bobby's desk.

"I suppose. The Winchester's have done a lot of good," he glanced at Bobby, holding up the dagger, "Is this iron?"

Bobby nodded and Castiel turned the blade over in his hand, checking its weight. Gabriel watched him with interest. He leaned in to Castiel's ear and spoke quietly, too quiet for Bobby to hear.

"But it's not exactly the Winchesters that you're attached to."

The Archangel smirked to himself again, and Castiel turned his face away. He felt his cheeks redden as he replayed Gabriels words in his mind. He _was_ attached, he knew that. Ever since he had broken Dean out of Hell, dragged him through the black pit of writhing, screaming souls, he had been attached. It was only natural. He supposed that had he dragged Sam out of Hell, he would feel a connection with him instead... except that wasn't it. He sensed that now it was more than just the shared experience that bound him to Dean. He had become more and more attached as time had gone on. Increasingly, over the past few months, he had found himself wondering what the older Winchester was doing at odd times through the day, sometimes while he was otherwise occupied, busy doing Heavens work. He had on multiple occasions disobeyed direct orders from his superiors at Dean's request. The hunters face would appear in his minds eye at random moments, and whenever it did, he felt a wave of... something. Something new. And the other angels knew about it. They had been talking about it. Castiel was only just beginning to realise himself that it was more than a usual attachment, and yet the others had been talking about it; presumably for weeks, considering how long it had been since he saw any of them. He wanted to ask Gabriel what exactly they had been saying, but this was not the time. Clearing his throat, he turned back to his brother, pocketing the dagger.

"Okay. Let's go."

"Whoa, slow down Cassy. Last thing I need is another mortal to look after. I'll take care of this one on my own."

Castiel stared at Gabriel and blinked back the prickling sensation in his eyes, trying to control himself, though when he spoke the tension was evident in his voice.

"I can't just wait around, Gabriel. I can't just sit here, useless, while Dean..." he heard himself getting louder and let out a heavy breath, "while Sam and Dean die."

At his words, Bobby still sitting by the door, looked up at him, the anger on his face barely masking the hurt that caused it. Castiel glanced with guilt at the hunter in his wheelchair, realizing his poor choice of words immediately. He raised his hands in apology.

"Bobby, I didn't mean-"

"Now you listen to me, boy," Bobby cut him off, his eyes narrowed as he practically spat the words at Castiel, "You can sure as hell feel bad about not being there, but don't you dare think for one second that you're useless."

Castiel closed his mouth, taken aback at the compliment when he'd been expecting to be cursed. Bobby stared at him, wheeling his chair closer, his expression suddenly incredulous.

"If it were'nt for you, those idjuts would've been dead months ago. Hell, if you hadn't got us a line to the ol' angel radio tonight, they'd probably be dead in an hour."

Gabriel sucked in a breath through his teeth and wiggled one hand in the air.

"Twenty minutes, tops."

"What?"

"Well, how long do you think it takes to stop breathing? I told you, Pestilence doesn't mess around. Well... he does. But it's the kind of messing around that causes instant stage four cancer, so..." Gabriel adjusted the collar of his shirt and glanced between Castiel and Bobby, waiting, "anyone wants to let me know where they are, nows your chance to shine."

Castiel brought his shoulders to full height and stepped up to his brother.

"I'm coming with you."

For a long minute, he just stared back. Castiel stood his ground, face to face with the Archangel until finally Gabriel rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Fine. But if you get killed, don't come complaining to me about it."

A look of gratitude settled on Castiel's face but Bobby just shook his head. He leaned over to the desk and picked up a worn notepad, flicking to the most recent page where an address had been hastily scrawled in black pen.

"Pestilence is holed up at the Serenity Valley Convalescent Home, over in Davenport, Iowa," he looked at the two angels, frowning, "You all just try and make it back in one piece, alright?"

"One piece might be awkward. Let's aim for four."

Gabriel grinned. He pressed two fingers to his brothers forehead, and then they were gone.

* * *

Outside the Serenity Valley Convalescent Home, the air was heavy with death. It settled over everything like an inescapable fog and Castiel wondered how far out it stretched. He was a little unsteady on his feet from the trip-he had never realized exactly how unpleasant it was for a human to be carried alongside an angel through the ether. Gabriels fingers on his forehead had been cool, but no sooner than he'd felt the touch, the floor had fallen out from beneath him and he'd been spinning, lost, somehow feeling the sensation of falling while being pressed hard from all sides. He imagined that this is what it would feel like to be a liquid pushed through a pipe. When his feet finally connected with the ground-mere milliseconds later, though it felt like much longer and much less all at once-he staggered forward and grasped Gabriels shoulder, breathing heavily and cursing himself for not taking another pain pill before they'd left. A few seconds went by and he let go, standing up straight. Gabriel eyed him warily.

"You sure you're up for this?"

"Yes." Castiel replied, his breath still heavy.

He swallowed hard as he felt bile burning in his throat and took the dagger from his pocket. It wasn't anywhere near as good as Ruby's knife, but it would do.

"Alright. Just try not to throw up on my shoes."

Gabriel began walking up the path, his eyes scanning over the building, before settling on a window on the second floor. He glanced back at Castiel and pointed.

"There."

Castiel nodded, not wanting open his mouth for fear of being sick. The closer he got to the building, the worse he felt, but still he followed.

Near the entrance, a woman in her early forties, dressed in pale blue pajamas, was laying face down on the ground. Castiel stared down at her as he walked past. The smell of blood came off her in waves. Just through the door he stopped, grabbing hold of Gabriel's arm. His brother turned to look at him as Castiel spoke through clenched teeth, trying to avoid the pungent stench of sickness in the air by breathing through his mouth.

"I'll go up first. I'll distract him. You just... zap in. Kill him before he sees you."

"That could work..."

Gabriel hesitated, staring hard at his brother, concern lining his ordinarily youthful face. He put a hand on Castiels shoulder, steadying him.

"Ready?"

Castiel nodded. If he was already in this much agony after being in the presence of Pestilence for less than five minutes, he couldn't imagine the amount of pain that the Winchesters must be in.

 _If they're still alive_ , he thought.

He gritted his teeth and gripped the dagger tight in his hand, moving steadily forward toward the staircase before he felt Gabriel's hand briefly touch the back of his head, sending him alone to the hallway upstairs in an instant. The dizzying rush of angelic flight took its toll on his already pained, nauseated body, and he collapsed against the wall, retching, choking on blood and bile. His vision blurred at the edges, and he felt as though he were staring down a long tunnel. He stumbled down it, clutching at the walls as he turned a corner. For a moment he forgot himself. He forgot where he was, what he was doing, why he was doing it. And then he saw. At the other end of the hallway, at the very end of the tunnel, was Dean. Or at least, Dean's legs. The other half of him had already been dragged through a doorway, and within a second, his legs followed.

Castiel could feel every drop of blood pounding through his veins, and it felt like it was made of lead, but he staggered forward, pushing through the pain. Not Dean, he thought. He begged his father to save him, to save Sam, though why he expected God to start listening now he didn't know. Almost to the doorway, he stumbled over the body of a dead nurse and into a metal cart stacked with medical supplies. It crashed to the floor, echoing through the empty halls. The silence that followed was palpable. A few seconds went by, and a pretty young nurse in a pink and white uniform emerged from the room that Dean had disappeared into. She looked down at Castiel with interest and stepped forward, smirking.

"What do we have here? Come to save the day?"

She blinked and her eyes flicked to black. Castiel stared up at her and spoke through the coppery taste of his own blood.

"Something like that."

Moving as fast as he could he slashed the dagger along the backs of her ankles, severing the achilles. She shrieked, falling to the ground as the tendons curled up, burning with the contact of the iron as he slashed again. Without a demon-killing knife or time for an exorcism, disabling her was his only option. His head spinning, he pushed down on her neck with his elbow, driving the dagger through her shoulder and into the linoleum, effectively pinning her to the ground. She screamed in agony. He tried hard not to think of the human that might still be trapped inside, and hoped that by some small mercy the girl was already dead. Almost as if the demon read his mind, it poured out of the vessels mouth in a twisting mass of black smoke, leaving the nurse to gasp and choke on the floor. Castiel yanked the dagger out of her shoulder, remorse beyond anything he had ever felt flooding through him as he looked down at her tear-streaked face. Blood bubbled out of her mouth.

"Please," she barely managed to get the words out, "stop him."

She coughed; a wet, hacking, awful cough, and was silent. Castiel pushed himself up and away from her, moving as purposefully as he could toward the door, trying desperately to quiet the voice in the back of his mind that kept telling him that he was too late.

 _Dean can't be dead,_ he told himself.

There were just so many things he still had to say.


	6. Pride and Pestilence

Castiel braced himself, staring back at the nurse as he tried to regain his balance. The unnatural, blue-tinged glow of fluorescent bulbs made the nurses blood stand out, too bright against the pallor of her skin. Everything seemed off somehow, as though it were being seen through a lens, on a screen, distant. A copy of a copy. He stared hard at the nurse laying there in the still-spreading pool of blood. His mind was hazy. He half-wondered who had stabbed her before he realized that it had been him, less than a minute ago. Through the fog of his increasing fever, Castiel felt the knife in his hand like it were a just a memory. He looked down at it. It was bloody, dripping sticky and wet on the pale linoleum. His other hand was trembling, leaving crimson fingerprints on the white wood of the door. The door. The door. He stared at it, blinking hard. The door. The door that would take him to Dean and Sam and Pestilence, and quite possibly, his death. He had to go through the door. He remembered. He blinked. He nodded and swallowed. An acrid smell filled his nostrils and he remembered being sick in the hallway. Was that him, or Jimmy? He felt detached from his vessel. As though his limbs were not moving in synchronization with his sense of them. Too fast, too slow. He heaved in a breath and felt it piercing his lungs. Whatever these diseases were that Pestilence was sending out, they were brutal. On the other side of the door, Castiel could hear a man talking. Smug, harsh tones. Something crunched. A grunt of pain. The sound stirred something in Castiel and it steadied him a little.

 _Move_ , he thought. _You have to move, now_.

He pushed the door open a crack and saw him. Pestilence. He was tall, balding, almost skeletal. He stood with his back to the door, and was looking down at his feet, speaking to someone that Castiel couldn't see. He pushed the door a little further. It slowly swung open, and he saw Dean, his hand outstretched, fingers crushed beneath Pestilence's foot as he reached for his dropped gun. He was bleeding, but not much, and though he didn't look great, it could have been much worse. Pestilence twisted his foot, crushing down on Deans fingers, and the hunter let out a gasp of pain as the bones cracked. The expression on his face was so agonized that Castiel could hardly bear to look at him.

Sam was on the floor between the horseman and the door, moving slowly toward him on his knees. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, no doubt suffering from the same fever as Castiel. He held a knife in one hand and was focusing with some difficulty on being quiet, his free hand reaching out toward Pestilence to grasp his wrist and cut the ring from his finger.

 _He's going to do it_ , thought Castiel.

A surge of pride, of hope, rose within him. It didn't last.

The door had kept opening after his last push, and as it finished its slow swing, bumping against a chair with a soft thud. Not soft enough. Pestilence raised his head and turned toward the sound as Castiel staggered forward to grab at the door, as if trying to stop the noise after it had already happened. He pulled too heavily and it swung back toward him, making him stagger and stumble to the floor. The rapid drop sent all the blood to his head. He heard Dean say his name, as if in question, but he sounded far away. Too far to see. Castiel was lost, swimming, drowning in his own blood. Pestilence barely gave him a second glance. Instead, his eyes turned to Sam, who had almost succeeded in grabbing his hand, in taking the ring. He clutched the hunter by the hair and pulled him up as he leaned down to look directly into his eyes, pressing his other hand over Sam's mouth, bony fingers digging into his cheekbones. He smiled, wide and cold.

"You know, it's really not good manners to sneak up on people like that, Sam."

He tightened his grip on Sam's face, and the skin began to raise up in blisters, spreading outward. Putrid, yellow boils burst from his neck as his carotid artery pulsed rapidly, visible through the skin. He gagged, choked. Castiel watched on with horror, trying desperately to get to his feet.

"Sam!" Dean shouted for his brother, but was too weak to move himself. He stared at Castiel with pleading eyes, "Cas, help him."

Castiel kept his eyes on Dean and pulled himself up, holding on to the doorframe. He took a step forward, staggering. He was on his feet for all of eight seconds before falling onto his knees again.

"Gabriel!" Castiel just barely managed to get the word out before he started coughing again, his lungs refusing to take in air, all the while demanding it.

He put both hands on the floor in front of him, heaving. Pestilence looked at him with amusement, shoving Sam's face away as if bored of torturing him. The hunter convulsed on the floor, his skin festering as Pestilence grinned at Castiel, gesturing around the room.

"I don't think he heard you," Pestilence crossed the room, crouching down to Castiel's level, "not that it's really a surprise. What with my friends taking care of him and all."

Of course, he wasn't alone. The demon in the hallway had been proof enough of that, but it hadn't occurred to him that there would be enough to slow down Gabriel. Thoughts of white-eyed archdemons flashed in Castiel's head, and he felt a wave of sickness that had nothing to do with the disease.

_What if Gabriel doesn't make it?_

Castiel didn't want to let the horseman know he was afraid, even now, broken and bleeding. He was still a soldier of Heaven. He would find a way out of this, even if Gabriel was gone. Still, before he could stop it, his eyes widened in panic and his throat constricted. Pestilence grinned again. Behind him, Dean moved with considerable effort to get to his brother. Sam had stopped writhing, but his breath was labored. Castiel looked away from the hunters and back at the horseman, who leaned in with his face inches away from Castiel's; his rank, putrid breath making the angel gag. As he raised a single hand-the one with the ring-to push against Castiel's face, there was an almost inaudible flutter in the air and Gabriel appeared, his face bloody and his shirt torn. He grabbed a hold of Pestilence by the back of his neck and dragged him back, shoving him to the ground before kneeling down and closing one hand tightly over the horsemans throat. White light radiated out from beneath his grip. Pestilence struggled in his grip as Gabriel turned back toward his brother, reaching out one hand. Castiel just stared at him, distracted by the lights popping in his eyes and the burning feeling that was coursing through his veins.

"Castiel."

Castiel blinked and five versions of Gabriel shifted around in front of his eyes like he were looking through a kaleidoscope. Five hands opened and closed in front of him. He was vaguely aware of someone else in background, hunched, shaking.

"The knife, Castiel."

The five Gabriels shuddered together, briefly becoming a single entity. Castiel looked down at his own hand, still holding the bloody iron knife. He lifted it up slowly, its weight almost too much for him, and held it out toward his brother who took it and sliced into the horseman's hand without a moments pause.

"Might want to shield your eyes, boys," Gabriel called out, and then, turning to Castiel, "you, too."

Castiel obeyed, squeezing his eyes closed and covering them with his elbow. A burst of white so bright that he could almost hear it cut through the dark, and then there was blackness. Silence. His head was still spinning, and he left the arm there, wanting to fade into unconciousness. After a moment, a hand pulled at his arm and he let it drop, opening his eyes and blinking, trying to focus. The pounding in his head was finally beginning to lessen. The horseman was gone, only a blackened mark on the floor where Gabriel had pinned him. He looked up and saw the archangel wriggling the ring off Pestilence's detatched finger with a look of distaste on his face. Finally, it came off, and he dropped the bloody stump onto the ground. It had already started to rot.

"Ugh," he looked down at Castiel with a wrinkled nose, wiping his hand on his shirt, "that was unpleasant."

"Where were you?"

Castiel's voice came out rough, and a little more accusatory than he had meant it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gabriel raised his eyebrows, "just felt like catching up with twenty-three of the horsemans lackeys outside. They were charming. All rotting flesh and demon eyes. You'd have loved them."

Castiel lowered his eyes, embarrassed, before Dean's voice cut through.

"Sam?"

In the dark room, Castiel could barely recognise the hunched form as Dean. He was crouching, holding onto Sam's shoulder, shaking him. Sam was limp, his eyes rolling around in his skull. The welts on his face deformed him, and in the pale moonlight that filtered through the window, he almost resembled a ghoul. Dean grabbed a hold of his chin, holding his head straight, trying to make him focus.

"Hey, Sam? Sam," Dean's voice cracked, "Sam! Look at me, Sam."

Castiel had never heard him sound so desperate, and it made his stomach lurch. He struggled to his feet and moved toward the two brothers.

"Dean? Is he-"

"Sam? Hey. Sam?" Dean was yelling now, shaking his brother hard by the shoulders, "SAM?"

Castiel reached out as if to heal Sam, momentarily forgetting that his grace was gone.

"Back off, Cas," Dean's eyes flashed with blame and Castiel stepped back, wounded, "he nearly had him before you got here."

"I was only trying to-"

Dean ignored him. He turned to face Gabriel.

"He's stopped breathing. Help him. Please."

Gabriel appeared at Sam's side in an instant, touching the back of his hand to his forehead. The hunter coughed, and gasped in a haggard breath, and the archangel turned to Dean.

"I'll take him back to Bobby."

Dean let out a heavy breath and stood, tension twitching in his jaw as he nursed his broken hand.

"Okay," he ran his good hand over his face and nodded, "alright. I'll head back in the car. Tell Bobby I'll be there soon."

Gabriel turned to Castiel.

"Coming?"

"I'll stay with Dean."

Gabriel smirked. In a flurry of invisible wings, he was gone, Sam in tow.

* * *

Dean wiped the blood from his hand on the front of his shirt as Castiel stood by the door, staring out at the beaten body of the nurse he'd had to kill to get inside. His eyes were distant, remorseful. Dean knew the look. He'd worn it enough times himself. Dean walked across the room to stand behind the angel.

"Chances are she was already dead, Cas."

The gruff sound of his voice cutting through the silence startled the angel, and he jumped a little before turning back to look at Dean.

"She wasn't," he sighed and looked away, "the demon escaped. The nurse spoke to me, but it was too late. I killed her."

"Sorry Cas," Dean clapped his good hand on Castiel's shoulder and squeezed, trying to avoid a heart to heart if he could. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, no time to dwell on it. We've gotta get the hell out of here before the fuzz turn up to find us standing over a pile of bodies."

Castiel frowned in confusion and Dean rolled his eyes.

"The police."

"Oh."

Dean gave him a gentle shove, and they both started out into the hallway. It was a war zone. The mess around the nurse that Castiel had killed was nothing compared to the state of some of the bodies they had to step over. Some of them appeared to have been dead for a while, their skin stretched, ashen and thin as tissue paper. Blackened eyes, bloated faces. The smell of death that hung in the air outside was nothing compared to the stench in the hallway, and without the threat of their own demise to pull focus, it was almost too much to bear. When they finally burst out through the back of the building into the cool night breeze, both angel and hunter were on the verge of suffocation.

The crisp air did them good, and after gulping in a few clean breaths, both felt a little better. Dean pointed through a bunch of trees beyond the hospital courtyard. The faint yellow glow of a streetlamp shone through, silhouetting the branches.

"She's through there."

Castiel didn't have to ask who. He let Dean walk a little ahead of him, and smiled to himself, relishing the thought of spending some time in the passenger seat of the Impala, _baby_ , as Dean so fondly called her, and listening to Dean talk. The smell of the upholstery, the feel of the road rumbling beneath them... somehow, in his mind, the Impala is what home felt like. He wondered if this notion was just something he had picked up from Dean, some feeling he had transferred while his grace had still allowed it. He wondered, but he found he didn't care. Whatever the reason, he liked the feeling. He decided not to analyse it. He lifted his gaze from the grass, and looked up at Dean. The hunter walked fast, his shoulders tense.

 _He's angry_ , Castiel thought, and then, remembering the way that Dean had looked at him in the room upstairs, _he's angry with me_.

Castiel swallowed around the lump in his throat as he realised that Dean blamed him for Pestilence hurting Sam as much as he had. On some level, he supposed he was right. Sam had nearly had him. His hand was inches away from grabbing the horseman when Castiel had made him turn around. The memory of Dean's expression seared in Castiel's mind. He hurried his pace.

"Dean." he spoke out of breath, and the hunter stopped halfway through the trees, turning to face him.

"Yeah, Cas?"

Dean's face was hard, blank. Castiel chewed the inside of his lip, searching for the right words. After a moment, he settled on the simplest ones.

"I'm sorry about Sam."

Dean frowned for a moment, then understanding, his face softened.

"Oh, hey, Cas... no," his tone was apologetic, and he raised his hands as he stepped towards Castiel, "Seriously, it wasn't your fault. I was just..."

He trailed off.

"Scared?"

Dean nodded, barely.

"I thought he was dead, you know? I don't blame you," he smiled at Castiel, though it was really more of a wince, "anyway, he's fine now. Gabriel's probably already worked his angel mojo on him."

"So you're not... angry?"

"What? No. Really. If you hadn't turned up with Gabriel, we'd both be dead right now."

Dean paused, thinking for a moment.

"...and speaking of being dead. Wasn't Gabriel?"

Castiel shrugged and started moving toward the Impala.

"It didn't take."

"Why?"

"No idea."

Dean stood a moment, staring after the angel, then shook his head and jogged to catch up, a relieved grin settling on his face. Castiel was okay. Wounded, but still himself. For the first time since Van Nuys, he had a feeling that they'd all get through this somehow.


	7. Too Close To The Sun

Castiel waited at the passenger side door as Dean caught up, resting his hand on the roof of the Impala. The metal felt good under his fingers. Solid. Already, the horrors they had encountered inside the convalescent home had begun to lose color in his memories, and somehow the feel of the car seemed to help the process. It grounded him, stopped him from dwelling. What had happened inside, all the blood and death and disease, that was all over. This was what was real now. The touch of cool metal on his skin. Fresh air in his lungs. The pale glow of yellow streetlamps and the distant sound of traffic. Castiel smiled. Looking up at Dean, he felt the pain of the past few days fade to almost nothing.

The hunter slipped a set of keys out of his pocket and made his way to the back of the Impala, opening the trunk. He shoved the shotgun and Ruby's knife into the mess of weapons and junk that cluttered the over-full space, and wiped the blood from his hands. After rummaging around for a moment, he glanced up at Castiel.

"I just got her looking nice again, you're not getting in when you're covered in..." Dean gestured toward Castiel's ruined clothes, a disgusted look crossing his face, "whatever that is."

Castiel looked down at himself. One side of his coat was drenched in blood, and the front of his shirt and pants were covered in a revolting greyish-yellow substance that smelled only marginally less awful than the building they had escaped from. One glance at Dean told Castiel that he wasn't the only one covered in the unpleasant slime, though the hunter had managed to dodge a lot more of it than Castiel had. It was vile, no doubt, but without his grace there was no way that he could see to get rid of it. He frowned at Dean.

"Well I can't get rid of it. No... angel mojo, remember?"

The words felt odd in his mouth, and he felt his lips quirk to the side in response to the ridiculous sound of the phrase as he looked at Dean, who half-rolled his eyes in response.

"No shit."

For a moment, Dean disappeared behind the open trunk. When he came back to Castiel's side, he was holding out a relatively clean t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans.

"Upside of living out of a car," he explained, handing them to Castiel.

Castiel took the clothes and put them down on the roof of the car, taking off his trench coat and folding it carefully in half. He looked up as Dean shrugged off his own jacket, and then, as the hunter pulled off his shirt, wiping the blood from his face on the inside before dropping it to the ground, Castiel stared. He had of course seen Dean in various states of undress; this was one of the reasons that any mention of personal space had ever come to pass. Three times he had appeared at Dean's side, and once Sam's, at a moment that both men had told him-in harsher terms-was completely inappropriate. He had seen no issue in it, but after their less-than-understanding attitudes to the situation, he had made it a habit to avoid appearing at times of the day when either of the hunters were likely to be showering.

As an angel, seeing a human unclothed was akin to a human seeing a nude statue. There was an understanding of the form, even an appreciation of beauty if it were present, but it was always disconnected. An observation devoid of any underlying responses, emotional or otherwise. But somehow, the more distant his grace had become, the more connected he felt to the world. First had been the experience of physical pain, and that he had come to terms with. Now, though... He had not been prepared for desire. Castiel swallowed, still staring, drinking in the sight of Dean before him.

In the dim light, the hunter's skin was smooth and unscarred. Castiels eyes traced the lines of his well-defined muscles, which flexed slightly as he leaned to pick up a new t-shirt from the trunk. His gaze moved slowly over Dean's chest, his arms, his collarbone. Even from this distance, he could make out a tiny pulse in the skin there, and without quite knowing why, Castiel bit down hard on the inside of his lip. There was something about the shape, the movement of Dean's form that transfixed him. He stared shamelessly, forgetting himself completely, still holding the folded trenchcoat between his hands.

Dean, having pulled on his new shirt, looked back at Castiel. The angel was staring, his eyes a little glazed, and he hadn't moved an inch.

"Cas?" Dean took a step toward him, concerned, "Cas, you okay?"

The sound of Dean's voice cut through, and Castiel blinked, quickly looking away from the hunter, trying to force his eyes to land on anything else. They darted around wildly. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, and was immediately thankful for the dim light which disguised his embarrassment.

"Uh," he floundered, tongue darting out over his dry lips, "um, yes. Still a little dizzy, I guess."

Dean eyed him warily.

"If you're gonna hurl, aim away from the car."

Castiel nodded and put his coat down on the ground as Dean disappeared behind the trunk again, noisily going through the contents. He stripped off, and stepped into the faded jeans. The waist was a bit roomy and the zipper a little stiff, but he managed to get the single button through the hole on his first attempt. Dressing was proving to be much more easy the second time round. He couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself. He was smiling to himself, pulling on the faded t-shirt when Dean reappeared.

The hunter stopped, looking at Castiel with some concern. Standing there in normal clothes, his hair dirty and a five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw, the angel looked a little too familiar for Dean's liking. Images of his time in 2014, of the drug-addled, broken version of his friend, flickered in his mind. He tried to force the unsettling thoughts from his mind by making a joke as he picked up the ruined clothes.

"Suits you, Cas."

Castiel tilted his head in question and Dean gestured toward the shirt.

"The angel. Well, technically it's Icarus. But still."

Castiel glanced down. The t-shirt was dark grey, perhaps black when it had begun its life, and on the front it bore the words Led Zeppelin and United States of America 1977 in white print. Between these words was the outline of an angel, his arms raised to the sky. He looked back up at Dean.

"Indeed. What's a Led Zeppelin?"

Dean stared at Castiel, blinking slowly. After a moment he spoke pointedly.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

He bunched up Castiel's clothes with his own, and shoved them all into the trunk of the Impala before slamming it shut and walking around to the drivers side. Looking over the roof, he pointed at Castiel.

"It's time for your musical education, Cas. Get in."


	8. Musical Education

There was a wail of sirens in the distance almost as soon as they climbed into the car.

As Dean steered the Impala out from behind the trees and onto the road a steady pulse of red and blue light faded into existence a couple of blocks ahead, and he glanced over at Castiel.

"Took them long enough."

He pressed a button on the dash and a cassette slid out of its cradle. Dean took it and held it out to Castiel, who took it and eyed it with some confusion.

"The case should be on the floor there somewhere."

"Isn't tape an antiquated form of recording? I thought music came in tiny white computers now."

As Castiel picked up the case, Dean pursed his lips in irritation, sick of answering some form of this question every time someone sat in the Impala. More than anything it annoyed him that Castiel would know about mp3 players, but not who Led Zeppelin were. There were some serious holes in the angels knowledge.

"The car doesn't have... I just like tapes, okay?"

Castiel just nodded, putting the tape away as Dean leaned across to take another out of the glove compartment. His arm brushed Castiel's and the angel tensed up, but if Dean noticed he didn't say anything. After rummaging around blindly for a moment he pulled one out and glanced at it, then sat up straight and handed it to Castiel.

"Zeppelin II," he gestured for Castiel to put it into the tape deck, "best album ever made, and don't let anybody tell you different."

Castiel took it out of its plastic casing. The label was confusing, and he ended up putting it in upside down, playing the second side first. After a moment of crackling white noise, a song began to play. A solitary voice singing. Castiel shifted his gaze from the stereo to Dean. Every time they passed under a street lamp, he could see the hunter's lips moving, singing along under his breath. Castiel found himself wishing that Dean would sing out loud.

Neither of them spoke during the first three songs.

Castiel stared alternately at the speaker, and, when he was certain he wouldn't get caught, Dean's lips. He wondered absently what they felt like, and embarrassed by the thought, he glanced away, inconspicuously raising his fingers to his own lips. He quickly ran the tip of his index finger over his chapped lower lip and wondered if Deans felt the same or if it were softer.

Half of him was glad he knew that it would be inappropriate to touch them. If he'd had the urge to do so a year ago he might have just reached out and done it, and something told him that would not have ended well, especially while driving. The other half couldn't help but point out that even if it would have been inappropriate, at least he would have known the sensation of Dean's lips on his skin. Castiel swallowed hard and lowered his hand. He looked back at the speaker, staring intently at it in an attempt to drown out the thoughts that were suddenly plaguing his mind. He stayed this way, sitting rigid and focused with his hands gripping his knees, all through the second song. And the third.

At the fourth song, Castiel felt something stir inside himself. The music took every thought he had and threw it to the wind. He felt pulled into the sound, as though it were flowing not just in the air, but through him. After the quick, steady rhythm and the soft guitar of the opening, it broke into something louder, less restrained. He felt a wave of something like pleasure roll through him when the singers voice rasped through the chorus, and his hands unclenched. He leaned back in his seat.

 _This must be why Dean loves this music so much_ , he thought.

When he found his voice it was quiet and contented.

"I like this, Dean."

Dean turned away from the road for a moment to look at Castiel. The angel was sitting with his eyes closed, head tilted back with his hands resting on his knees. On anyone else, it would have looked awkward and uncomfortable, but this was the most at ease that Dean had ever seen him.

"What is this one called?"

"Ramble On."

Castiel repeated the name to himself and opened his eyes, leaning forward to turn the volume up. He noticed Dean grinning at him and paused, his fingers still resting on the dial.

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean shrugged, turning his eyes back to the road, "It's my favorite, too."

"Oh."

They listened to the rest of the song in silence. The smile playing across Dean's face drawing Castiel's attention more than once. He felt his own lips echoing the expression.

When the song ended, in the few seconds before the next one began, Castiel's stomach rumbled loudly, startling him. He stared down at himself, his furrowed brow back in full form as he placed a hand above the waistband of his borrowed jeans, feeling the rolling growl within. Dean gave him a sidelong glance, his laugh more snort than anything else. Castiel glared at him, though secretly he was relieved that this was a common enough occurrence to elicit laughter from his friend.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I had a slice of pizza at the airport."

"...is that all?"

"It was covered in seasoned meats." Castiel rubbed his stomach, which was still gurgling, and looked over at Dean, "and I had some oatmeal yesterday."

Dean stared at him, exasperated.

"Alright. Pro-tip, Cas; human bodies need food to keep going," Dean shook his head, "We'll stop somewhere. Get something to go."

"Okay."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Dean pulled into the parking lot of a seedy-looking fast food joint on the side of the highway. The flickering neon sign on the roof read Dixie's Diner, and there were only four other cars out front. As Dean pushed open the door, a loud riff blared from his pocket. He fished his phone out and glanced at the screen before flicking it open and pressing it to his ear, gesturing for Castiel to go in ahead of him.

"Bobby? Is Sam okay?"

Castiel walked through the door. Glancing back, he saw Dean let it swing closed. The hunter walked slowly along the pavement as he talked to Bobby. The diner was small and brightly decorated, one of those 50's-style joints that actually opened in the late eighties, and had a little jukebox in each booth. Castiel stood in the middle of the checker-board floor, taking in the tacky 50's paraphernalia that decorated the walls. As he looked up at a faded Elvis poster, a woman in her 30's with dark curls and a genuine smile spoke from behind a stack of plates.

"Take a seat, honey. I'll be out to take your order in a tick."

"Oh. Okay."

The woman-Lurleen, according to the curly script on her name tag-made her way toward the kitchen, her red apron swishing as she walked past him. Castiel glanced around, finally settling on a booth by the window. He slid in, running his hands over the speckled green Formica. Dean was standing just on the other side of the window, still talking on the phone. He looked as though he were arguing. Noticing Castiel through the glass, Dean rolled his eyes and pointed at the phone, drawing circles in the air around his temple with his free hand. Castiel just looked at him with confusion. Dean said something else, and with an irritated expression clicked the phone shut. Castiel picked up the menu just as he walked in the door.

"Jeez, Bobby knows how to be a pain in my ass."

"Is Sam okay?"

"Yeah. He's fine. Sleeping like a baby. Gabe got him all patched up before he left."

"Good."

"Yeah. So listen, Bobby damn near burst my eardrum when I said we were only four hours away. Told me, and I quote; if I see either of you before noon tomorrow, you'll be getting kicked from here to Tuesday."

Dean rolled his eyes, and Castiel waited for him to explain. Seeing that he didn't understand, Dean went on.

"Apparently I 'shouldn't be driving' because I 'haven't slept in two days.' We'll stop at a motel, I guess."

Dean sounded genuinely irritated by this, but he shrugged and picked up his menu, opening it out and looking at the selection of burgers as he spoke again.

"So it looks like we've got time to get a decent meal after all."

Castiel nodded, inspecting his own menu. Given that so far the only things he had ever eaten were gluey oatmeal, dry airport pizza and a few hundred greasy cheeseburgers, he wasn't entirely sure what constituted a decent meal. Everything on the menu seemed to have the word cheese in it's name. He stared at it for a long minute before looking back at Dean, who had already dropped his menu on the table and was checking out the waitress, who was leaning against the counter and chatting to a man in a faded baseball cap.

"What should I eat?"

"Depends. What do you like?"

Dean was still looking away, eyes on the waitress. He glanced back at Castiel and made a lewd expression in the waitresses direction, as if asking his opinion. It annoyed Castiel for some reason he didn't fully understand, though he knew that somehow it was connected to the feeling of desire he had been struck with in Davenport and the urge to touch Dean's lips in the car. It left him feeling hollow and wounded, and he put down his menu with a little more force than he had intended.

"I have no idea, Dean. I've only been human two days."

Dean's brow twitched into an affronted frown.

"Yeesh, fine. I'll just order for you."

The waitress finally glanced over and saw them waiting. The man with the baseball cap said something to her and she winked at him as she made her way to their booth, pulling a pad and pen from the pocket of her apron. She smiled widely at them.

"What can I get you boys?"

"We'll both have the double bacon cheeseburger, with a side of onion rings."

"Anything to drink?"

"Beer," he glanced across the table, "Cas?"

Castiel raised his eyebrows and nodded at the waitress.

"Yes, I'll have a beer to drink, also."

"Great, be out in two shakes."

"Thanks," Dean tilted his head toward her to read her name tag, "Lurleen."

Dean grinned mischievously at her and the waitress smirked back, hips swinging as she walked to the kitchen. Castiel frowned.

"Were you flirting with that waitress?"

"Do fish swim?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes and looked out the window at the passing cars. Dean pushed himself up from the table.

"Right. Well, I'm gonna head to the bathroom. Still feel like I've got chunks of Pestilence in my hair."

Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, Castiel watched Dean walk through the swinging door of the bathroom. No sooner than it had shut behind him, the cell phone he had left sitting on the table began to ring. Castiel looked down at it. The display said BOBBY - CELL. He picked it up and opened it carefully.

"Hello Bobby."

"Cas, is that you?"

"Yes."

"Where's Dean?"

"Dean is in the bathroom."

There was a slight pause.

"Well you want to tell him that Gabriel brought Sam back? He's fine, by the way. Healed up and sleeping."

"He knows."

"Right. Any idea how far off you two are?"

Castiel furrowed his brow. Something wasn't right.

"How far off...? We won't be there until tomorrow at noon. Dean can't drive tonight because he hasn't slept in two days, remember?"

"Good idea. Well, make sure you tell him not to worry about Sam. He's probably in better shape than either one of you right now."

"Okay...?"

"See ya, Cas."

The phone clicked. Castiel lowered it from his ear.

"Well that was weird."

As he put the phone back down on the tabletop, Castiel heard the sound of wings. He looked up to find Gabriel sitting opposite him, a sly grin on his face. Castiel glanced down at the phone and then back to his brother.

"That was you that called Dean."

"Guilty," Gabriel's eyes twinkled, "and you're welcome, by the way."

"What? Why?"

His brother shrugged, his expression playful.

"I bought you a little extra time with lover boy."

Castiel felt all the blood rush to his head. His cheeks burned and he looked away, tongue darting nervously over his lips.

"I don't know what you mean."

Gabriel let out an amused snort.

"You sure about that, brother?" he leaned across the table toward Castiel, who was still avoiding eye contact, "because it is written all over your face."

The bathroom door swung open, and for a second Castiel tensed up, but it was just the man with the cap. He looked back at Gabriel, his eyes wide and terrified. If his brother could see it, then maybe everyone could. His voice came out small. He sounded pathetic, and he wanted to kick himself.

"It is?"

Gabriel sank back in his seat.

"Don't worry, Cas. It'd probably take you planting one on him for him to have any idea. Even you've been clueless. Maybe you're just realising it for yourself now that you've lost your wings, but I gotta tell you, it's all anyone's been talking about for months. It was only a matter of time."

"What do you mean?"

The archangel shrugged.

"Angels don't just fall, brother. You've got to have a reason."

He glanced toward the bathroom door, then back at Castiel.

"Anyway, like I said; you're welcome."

With a wink, Gabriel was gone. Castiel turned his words over in his mind, staring with glazed eyes at some point in the distance. He didn't even hear Dean come back.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The hunter's voice startled him. For a brief moment he considered telling him about the faked call, but when he looked across the table and saw the corners of the hunters eyes crinkled with his smile, his resolve melted. He had wanted more time with Dean, and now he had it. He smiled back.


	9. An Empty Feeling

Castiel's burger was gone in under three minutes. He pushed away his empty plate and pulled the bowl of onion rings toward himself, drenching them in ketchup and cramming them into his mouth two at a time. Dean stared at him with a kind of morbid fascination.

"You might want to slow down, Cas."

"But," Castiel said through a mouthful, "I'm hungry."

Dean looked as though he were going to say something else, but he just smirked to himself and picked up his own burger, taking another bite before looking back down at a map he had laid out on the table.

As they ate, a heavy rain had begun to fall. The steady rush of sound put Castiel in mind of the white noise at the beginning of the cassette in Dean's car, and he decided that he wanted more. He hadn't actively listened to music for a long time, and until tonight, had not truly appreciated it. As Dean inspected the map for the nearest motel, Castiel licked the salt and ketchup from his fingers and reached over to the little jukebox on the wall. He flicked through the catalogue of vinyl singles, chewing absently on the last of his onion rings. A few of the names he recognized, but most he had never heard before. One in particular stood out. He looked closely at the corresponding numbers and pressed the buttons. Nothing happened. He pressed them again, and as he did he noticed the coin slot. He moved his hand reflexively to his trench coat pocket, but when he realized he wasn't wearing it he let out a huff of irritation.

Dean looked up from his map.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

Castiel scowled out the window at the trunk of the Impala, shining wet with rain and reflecting the red neon sign of the diner. He looked back at Dean with indignation, half-rolling his eyes.

"The music machine wants coins," he explained, "and I have coins in the pocket of my coat. But it is outside. Ordinarily I could just blink out there and I'd have them already. Now I'll have to walk outside in the rain, open ' _baby_ '-"

Dean let out a choke of laughter at this and Castiel's scowl returned as he spoke.

"-and search through my coat which, by the way, is basically crawling with diseases."

He paused, thinking, and looked out at the car again-a sad expression suddenly replacing his frustrated one.

"I liked that coat."

Dean shifted in his seat and dug around in his own pocket. After a moment he placed a coin down on the table.

"Quit the pity party and play your damn song."

Castiel reached out and took the coin, sliding it across the tabletop.

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean nodded and took another giant bite of his burger, talking through it as he looked back at his map.

"Don't mention it."

Castiel put the coin into the jukebox, pushed B-9 and leaned back with closed eyes, preparing to appreciate the music without visual distraction. After a moment, heavy guitar cut through the sound of rain. Castiel felt his head nodding to the rhythm. Meanwhile, Dean nearly choked on his burger.

"Really, Cas? Black Sabbath? _Really_?"

Castiel was tapping his fingers, now. He opened his eyes to address Dean, and sat up straighter when he saw the incredulous expression on the hunters face. He had thought that Dean would be happy with his selection-the cassette had been on the floor of the Impala-and had even allowed a little part of himself to hope that he would sing along.

"I thought you would like it."

"Oh, don't get me wrong-I like Sabbath as much as the next guy. But seriously? Of all the things for an angel to choose on the jukebox," Dean snorted, "though I guess, fallen angel... it makes sense."

Castiel felt a pang of shame run through him, and he sank back in his seat, averting his eyes. He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the road outside. He had fallen, it was true. Any sense of his grace that he'd thought he had when he first woke up had just been a remnant, a dream. It was gone. Any chance of getting it back was minuscule, even immediately after he had lost it. It had been weeks now, and with every day that passed it became less and less likely that he would ever be what he once was. He knew all this; Gabriel had basically confirmed it, twice now. But to hear Dean say it-for Dean to see that he was fallen, and to actually _say_ it-it was worse, somehow. Castiel felt his breathing falter. His eyes stung. He tried to focus.

Dean, for once, noticed the effect of his words. He stared across the table at Castiel, guilty as hell for making the stupid joke.

 _Real nice, Dean_ , he thought, _kick him when he's down why don't you?_

"Hey, Cas, I didn't mean-"

But Castiel just shook his head.

"No, you're right," he swallowed around the lump in his throat and his jaw twitched as he looked at the hunter and forced himself to say the words that he had been avoiding, "I'm not an angel any more."

Dean rubbed a hand roughly over his jaw, trying to find the words to make it right. He felt certain that Castiel would get his grace back. Of course he would. He'd be okay. How could he not be? He was Castiel. Cas. Nothing could hurt Cas, not really. Nothing that could last. He shrugged hopefully.

"There's still a chance, though, right? I mean, Anna got her grace back, and that had been gone for years."

"I landed in the ocean, Dean. My grace could be anywhere by now."

The realization that Castiel might be human for good seemed to hit Dean square in the chest. He visibly deflated, his face wrought with concern. He scrambled for ideas, sure that somehow the angel-ex-angel, he corrected himself-could be fixed. They both sat in silence for a long moment. After a while, a flicker of hope appeared on Dean's face.

"Well... we've got Gabriel, right? I'll bet he'll be able to find it. Hell, he's probably already looking for it."

Castiel wanted to believe that Dean was right, that he had a chance. But he knew that Gabriel would not be looking for it, because it was gone, lost somewhere in the depths of the ocean where it would never be found. Seeing the worry on Dean's face though, he decided it was better to lie. For now, at least. He didn't want to be any more of a burden than he already felt. In the back of his mind, a vicious part of himself pointed out that maybe if he couldn't get his grace back, Dean wouldn't want him around any more.

 _He only calls when he needs your help_ , he thought. _And what use are you if you're only human?_

He pushed the thought out of his mind and nodded hopefully at the hunter. His strained smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I hope so."

Dean felt a nervous pit in his stomach. He knew it probably wasn't normal that seeing a friend smile should cause him so much worry, but this was Cas, and normally, Cas didn't smile. Dean could count on his right hand the amount of times he had seen any expression other than confusion or concern on his face before today. Now, he seemed to smile at everything, and it had been forced every time. Like he was trying to convince Dean, maybe even himself, that he was okay. It made Dean think of his time in 2014 again. If this was how it started... He suppressed a shudder. No. He looked back at Castiel, who had sunk back into the vinyl seat and seemed to be listening intently to the song playing on the jukebox, a little crinkle in his brow. Dean folded up his map and shoved it back into his pocket.

"Come on, Cas," he got to his feet, "Nearest motel is a half hour away."

Castiel looked up at him and slid out of the booth. Dean held open the door. As Castiel walked out into the rain toward the Impala, Dean passed him and clapped on hand briefly onto his shoulder.

"You can pick the tunes."


	10. Mozart at the Motor Inn

They hadn't been in the room fifteen minutes before Dean left.

"I need a drink or eight," he said, picking up his keys from the table by the door, "think I saw a liqour store a couple of blocks back. Want to come with?

Castiel just shook his head and turned back to the screen. Without another word, the door clicked shut and Castiel picked up the remote control. He switched off the television and sat quietly, his hands resting loosely at his sides. As he stared at the blank screen, he replayed the past hour in his head. Over and over.

* * *

The road was black and reflective, the brake lights of passing cars red and bright against the bitumen. The rain-soaked roads meant slow traffic, and by the time they arrived at the motel almost three quarters of an hour had passed.

Castiel had stared out the window the entire time. Forty-five minutes of silence. He had ignored the offer of picking music, and five minutes into the drive, Dean had taken out the cassette and flipped it around to listen to the first side.

During the drive Castiel had given a lot of thought to understanding what he felt, and had come to the conclusion that what he felt, more than anything, was small. Unimportant. Useless. And although he had felt this way since he first woke up without his grace in the New Orleans hospital, he had been okay because he had known that Dean still wanted him around. But at the diner that one hurtful little voice in the back of his mind had planted the seed of doubt, and now he couldn't stop thinking that any moment now, Dean would abandon him. As soon as he realised that Castiel would never get his grace back unless God suddenly decided to help him, he would leave.

Castiel spent thirty-five minutes of the forty-five minute journey having an argument with himself about the likelihood of abandonment, and the scared, fragile part of himself had lost the battle. The other ten minutes had been used up with other thoughts, hopeful thoughts. Whenever they weren't drowned out by the fear, images would crop up in his mind of Gabriel appearing, carrying something small and shining that felt like home, of once again seeing that eternal Tuesday in heaven, sitting in the full sun and watching a red kite twist and duck and weave in the cool air. Images of Dean opening his arms and telling Castiel he would be okay.

In the parking lot of the motor inn, Castiel had become aware of Dean staring at him but couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. The hunter opened his mouth as if to speak, thought the better of it, and got out of the car. Castiel watched him walking toward a yellow neon sign that read 'Reception', and sighed, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

He was thinking the hopeful thoughts again when a sharp rapping on the roof alerted him to the hunter's presence.

"You coming?"

Castiel looked through the rain-spattered glass, nodding at his friend. He could see lines of worry on Dean's face, and hoped with everything he had that it was out of concern for his personal wellbeing and not just that he was out of angelic ammo.

By the time he had reached the door, Dean had already unlocked it and was reaching around the wall to find the light switch. Castiel stood behind him, waiting for the light to come on, and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to touch the hunter. This wasn't like the desire he had felt earlier that night. That had been different; almost a physical ache in the pit of his stomach. This, though, was something deeper. He had been on the verge of tears for most of the drive, and what he needed was... he wasn't sure. Comfort. Security. He was so lost. He needed to be grounded, to feel safe. What he really wanted, he thought, was for Dean to hold him close and let him press his face into the hollow of the hunters neck, He needed the warmth. He needed to feel protected. When the light finally flickered on, Castiel settled for resting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

At the unexpected contact, Dean turned back. When he saw Castiel's face, wrought with sadness, eyes distant and red-rimmed, his already worried expression intensified.

"Cas? Hey, are you alright?"

Dean reached out, putting a firm hand on Castiels shoulder, almost in echo of the angels hand that still rested on his. Castiel felt a wave of calm run through him. Even this small touch gave him strength. It helped to quiet the voice. He glanced down and let out a breath. For now, this was enough. He raised his eyes a little and smiled weakly.

"I will be."

Dean had tried to smile back, but it was barely more than a grimace. He gave Castiel's shoulder a brief squeeze and walked into the room, dumping his duffel bag down on one of the beds before sinking down onto the sofa. He switched on the TV.

After a moment, Castiel pulled the door shut and sat down on the faded sofa beside him, his knee just barely grazing Deans. It was strange. The desire, the physical longing that had first struck him outside the convalscent home when he saw Dean changing, was still present. He wanted to touch, to feel, to taste. It was unsettling. But on top of that, was another desire, one less physical and more like that which he had always associated with the pull of his grace when he was being called. A feeling of completeness almost realised. He was thinking of this, inching his hand across the green cushion of the sofa so as to accidentally bump his fingers against Deans, when the hunter had stood and walked toward the door, proclaiming his need for alcohol.

By the time Dean arrived back from the store with a bag of potato chips, a bottle of Jack, and a plan to drown their sorrows, Castiel was so overwhelmed by the swirling mass of feeling that he downed the first glass in one go. He held it out for another before his friend had even finished pouring his own.

Dean raised his eyebrows, but he didn't say a word.

* * *

Castiel felt a warmth blossoming in his stomach, growing with every drink. The world felt louder. Some time after his fourth drink, as they sat at the little table by the window that overlooked the motel parking lot, Castiel decided to tell Dean about waking up in the hospital. He leaned forward, one elbow pressed into the surface of the table, trying to hold Dean's attention. Dean, meanwhile, was surpressing laughter. The angel was a lightweight.

"Dean. Dean, this is important," Castiel blinked slowly again, each eyelid slightly out of synch with the other, "Dean. Listen."

Dean held up his hands in surrender, though he was still chuckling under his breath.

"Alright, alright, what's your story?"

"Okay," Castiel nodded to himself, then frowned, "what was I up to?"

"The doctor was asking you your name."

"Oh. Okay. So the doctor, she uh..."

"Asked you your name."

"Yes. She asked me my name, and I didn't-I mean, I thought that I shouldn't use my name, because other Angels might have been looking for me. So I didn't tell her my name was Castiel. But then I thought, I thought if I said Jimmy Novak, and they got his medical files, they would contact Jimmy's wife. So I couldn't say... Uh. I couldn't say that... either."

Dean was listening with the dwindling focus of a sober person being subjected to a drunks rambling. He was going to have to catch up if this story was going to last much longer. In almost an hour, the angel had covered maybe five minutes worth of what had happened at the hosptial. Dean poured himself another drink as Castiel thought hard, trying to remember the rest of his story.

"Okay. Right. So I couldn't say that. But then I thought of you and all your false, I mean, all your fake identities and how they are musicians. So I tried to think of a music-HIC-"

He hiccoughed and Dean snorted at the startled expression on his face.

"-a musician."

Castiel held a hand to his throat, feeling the twitch of his hiccoughs. After a moment, he seemed to remember he was telling a story and lowered his hand, looking back at Dean.

"So I told her my name was-HIC-Wolfgang Ama-HIC-Amadeus Mozart."

Dean couldn't stop laughing. Even when the whiskey slid down his windpipe and he was choking, with tears in his eyes as it stung in his throat, he couldn't stop laughing. He had always thought he was going to die a hunters death, but now he decided that he was wrong.

 _This is it,_ he thought. _This is what's going to end me; not some demon or poltergeist or Lucifer, but choking to death on my drink because Castiel is clueless._

Castiel knew he was being laughed at, and not with, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind. It _was_ funny. And it was worth it if it meant that Dean was laughing. He tried to feign offence, a pout of indignation on his face, but that only served to make Dean laugh harder. Castiel felt the corners of his own mouth twitch up into a grin.

 _If this is what it is to be human,_ he thought through the whiskey fog that had settled in his mind, _then I could probably get used to it._


	11. Drunk and Restless

By half past one in the morning Castiels hiccoughs had subsided, the bottle was empty, and Dean was sufficiently caught up in the intoxication department. The two of them sat, half slumped in their seats at the table, speaking fervently about some topic one moment, then falling into slow-blinking silence as their sluggish, whiskey-soaked minds tried to remember what it was that they had been discussing. After one of these silences, Dean leaned back in his chair and eyed Castiel with a frown of concentration. When he spoke, his voice was loud and more than a little slurred.

"Cas."

"Hrrmph?"

"What was it like? Before."

He crossed his arms and stared at Castiel, who opened one eye to look back at him in confusion. He was fairly certain that Dean had missed out the majority of the question he had been meaning to ask.

"What?"

"You know. With Jimmy."

Dean stared back at him as if this explained everything.

"What?"

"Well, he's gone, right?"

Castiel sat up a little straighter to meet Dean's eyes and nodded.

"For quite a while."

"Well when he was still, you know... in there," Dean gestured vaguely in Castiels direction, "What was it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could you talk to him? Could he talk to you? How does that work exactly?"

Castiel thought, trying to find the best way to explain the feeling of two beings taking up the same space. It wasn't exactly pleasant for the vessels original occupant, but he didn't want to tell Dean that. He chewed his lip a little as he thought, and felt Dean's eyes on him. After a moment, he just shrugged.

"It depends," he raised his glass to his lips, found it empty, and put it back down with disappointment as he continued, "Some angels allow their vessels soul to be present, watching through their own eyes as the angel uses their body."

He noticed Dean sit up a little straighter, a look of distaste flickering over his groggy features. Castiel scrambled to explain lest he judge him too harshly.

"But I never liked to do that. It's too much like demonic possession. Most souls find that unsettling," he saw Dean relax again, and continued, "For the most part, Jimmy existed in a dream state. I could talk to him by entering that dream state myself. Like those times I entered your dreams."

Castiel looked down at the table, turning his empty glass in his hand as Dean nodded in understanding, then quite abruptly, he stopped, turning his head as if trying to remember something. He leaned across the table a little.

"Wait. Times? As in plural?"

Dean's face went red very quickly, and Castiel tried not to smirk at the blush that crept down the hunters neck. He nodded.

"What was the other one?"

Castiel leaned toward him, studying the hunters face, wondering what exactly had brought on this particular reaction. Dean averted his eyes.

"I have visited your dreams twice. Once, you were fishing at a lake. The other time was not long after we first met. I think I may have been a little unfriendly. It was in Bobby's house. In the kitchen."

Dean's relief was immediate, though he tried to disguise it. Castiel found the whole display very strange, but figured it was just a side effect of the alcohol and his own lack of knowledge of the many nuances of human behaviour.

"Oh, that. Right. I wasn't sure if that... Alright. Just those two times? Okay. That's okay then."

Dean tapped his fingers on the table and stared out the window. The rambling, nervous talk was very unusual. Castiel was curious, and a big part of him wanted to just ask Dean what he was suddenly so embarrassed about, but the hunter's flushed neck and cheeks distracted him so much that he was beyond words. He stared, drinking in the sight, perhaps a little greedily. Dean, with his face turned to the window, was-thankfully-oblivious to this. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Castiel tore his eyes away just in time for Dean to look back at him, a strained smile on his face.

"Okay. Well, I'm beat. Better try to get a couple hours sleep."

He stood up and half-staggered across the room, stopping to drop the empty bottle into the trash before disappearing into the bathroom. A few minutes later he emerged, shirtless and drying his face on a towel. He threw it back into the bathroom over his shoulder and fell, face down, onto the bed closest to the door. His voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Night, Cas."

Castiel just stared at him. He wanted to reply, but somehow the sight of the hunters bare back, his well-toned shoulders sprinkled with freckles, almost glowing in the dim light from the parking lot outside, left him without the luxury of language.

After his basic brain function had come back, he found himself desperately wanting to crawl onto the bed beside the hunter and curl up beneath the blankets.

He may have half-mumbled something to this effect, but as luck would have it, Dean was already asleep.

* * *

Outside, the rain showed no sign of easing up.

The steady sound of rushing water on the motels roof should have sent him to sleep in no time, but he had been laying awake for hours. He had stumbled to his own bed around two. Now it was well after four, and somehow, despite the heavy rain, all he could hear was Dean breathing. Slow and deep. Calm. He rolled over to his other side to look at the hunter and found him laying on his back, one arm raised up over his head on the pillow, the other tangled in the sheets beneath him. At some point he had pulled a blanket over himself, and it covered two thirds of his chest. What little was still visible drew Castiel's attention, and he felt his tongue dart out over his suddenly dry lips as he stared. He could see a tiny pulse in the skin at Dean's throat, and raised two fingers to feel his own racing heartbeat.

It may have been a side effect of the alcohol, but quite suddenly, he knew that more than anything, that right now this second all he wanted was to hear Dean's pulse. To feel the warmth of that freckled skin. He wanted to trace the pattern of the anti-possession tattoo on Dean's chest with his fingertips. With his lips- But that, _definitely_ that, he was fairly certain, would be inappropriate. He also had a sinking suspicion that thinking about doing any of those things while staring at his sleeping friend would fall under that umbrella, too, but his self control only went so far. He rolled onto his back and tried hard to think of something else, but he couldn't get Dean out of his head.

He sat up and lowered his head into his hands, breathing deeply and rubbing his eyes, trying to force the images from his minds eye. When they refused to go away he tried to imagine touching someone else, _anyone_ else, but in his mind all faces flickered and reformed into Deans. He wondered if perhaps it was just proximity to the hunter that was making his inebriated mind unable to focus on anyone else.

He turned to look back at the sleeping form, watching the steady rise and fall of breath. The look of peace on Dean's face was one he hadn't seen since... well, ever. The sleeping hunter let out a half-moan in his sleep and rolled over, wrapping both arms around a pillow and pressing his face into it with a sigh, the motion causing his blanket to spill over the edge of the bed. Without thinking, Castiel stumbled to his feet and picked the blanket up. It was warm with residual body heat. The thought sent a tiny thrill through him, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek as he draped it back over Dean's shoulders. The hunter let out a little sound of simple pleasure at the welcome warmth, and nuzzled into the pillow, gripping it more tightly. Castiel felt his own breath catch in his throat as he stared at the hollow of Dean's throat. The need to touch him was all encompassing, an ache beyond anything he could remember. He imagined closing the distance, about allowing himself this one small touch, but he knew that it would not end well.

Eventually, he dragged himself away from Dean and made his way to the table by the window. He sat with his back to the wall and closed his eyes, willing the tension to break.

It refused.


	12. Good Intentions

Some time after dawn, the rain eased off.

The mornings birds were mid song when Castiel's exhaustion won the battle for his consciousness. Thunder rolled somewhere off in the distance, and in the pale light his head sank to his hands on the whiskey-spattered table.

It was a brief and restless sleep, dreamless as ever; a vast black nothing until the morning came.

At ten-thirty, he woke abruptly to the feeling of a hand on his back.

"Hey, Cas?"

For a split second panic overcame him. He was convinced that he had crawled into the hunters bed after all, and he jerked up with wide eyes, his neck stiff and aching. The sudden movement brought with it a wave of nausea, and his brain throbbed in his skull as he looked up at Dean, who stood by the table in a haze of over-bright sunlight. Castiel groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes, trying to block out the painful light of the room. Dean smirked in amusement.

"How's your head?"

Cas just groaned again, and Dean let out a low chuckle.

"Figured," he handed over a small packet of pills, "here."

Castiel took them and glanced up at Dean with gratitude as the hunter walked back to the bathroom, collecting what few possessions he had brought into the motel. Meanwhile, Castiel shook the box in his hand. He hoped these pills were as strong as the medication he had left at Bobby's house; they still had a few hours to drive, and he didn't want to have to endure this headache until they arrived back in Sioux Falls. This was his second hangover, but the last time, he had still been an angel. An angel on a bender, but still. He wondered how long this usually lasted for humans as he gave the box a cursory glance. Despite the warning labels explicit instruction to never exceed four tablets in any eight hour period, he swallowed six in one go. That should do it.

"Come on, dude," Dean stood by the open door, his duffel bag slung loosely over one shoulder, "Gotta check out."

Castiel slipped the pills into his pocket and pulled himself to his feet, feeling an unfamiliar but not altogether unpleasant series of pops in his vertebrae as he stretched his back. He rolled his neck and felt a sharp crack release the built up tension of sleeping at an odd angle. Immediately his brain connected the tension in his joints to the tension of last night, and all the thoughts came flooding back at once, but he shook it off and followed the hunter out the door.

What he had been feeling needed consideration, it was true; but this wasn't the time.

* * *

With the windows down and the stereo at a much lower volume than Dean usually considered acceptable, they coasted through small town after small town. Castiel felt the ache in his head fading, and after a while the throbbing had completely subsided. He wasn't sure if he was glad about it or not. The pain, while intense and unpleasant, had served as a distraction; something to stop him from thinking about what he had been thinking, what he had been feeling, the night before.

Now, with a clear head and no alcohol to blame his _definitely_ inappropriate desires on, he found himself more confused than ever. He traced the events of the previous day in his memory, and though he could admit to himself that he had-for a long time-been more concerned about Dean's safety than anyone else's, he knew that prior to seeing the hunter undressed yesterday he had felt nothing beyond a platonic connection. He was sure it had always been platonic.

He allowed himself a sideways glance at Dean as they crossed a narrow bridge, and saw the hunter rub his knuckles over his neck, kneading out a knot that had formed there. He remembered seeing Dean do this before on the long drive they had shared months ago, hunting down Raphael. He remembered offering to help, remembered the look of embarrassed incredulity on Dean's face when he'd leaned away and said, _No, thanks Cas_.

Back then he still had his grace. Back then he could have just willed the ache away for Dean, but he hadn't. He had wanted to...

 _Huh_.

Castiel turned his gaze back out his own window. So maybe he was about ninety percent sure it had always been platonic. Eighty five, if he were being really honest. He tried to remember if he had ever had any moments like this with Sam. With Bobby, even. Anyone. But none came to mind. An idea blossomed, and he resolved himself to find out for sure once they returned to the salvage yard.

A half hour away from Bobby's house, Dean reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out a cassette. He wiggled it in the air.

"You mind?"

Castiel shook his head, and Dean grinned as he pressed play. Crunchy guitar and insistent drums blasted through the speakers, and Dean turned up the volume, pounding his hands on the steering wheel and nodding his head with the beat.

Castiel looked at the hunters hands with narrowed eyes. Something was off. It took him a moment to place it.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"I thought your hand was broken."

It occurred to him now that he hadn't seen Dean favouring his other hand since they had stopped at the diner, and he frowned. Dean shrugged.

"Gabriel."

Castiel looked at him in question, and Dean shifted in his seat a little.

"Uh, yeah. I forgot to mention it. He turned up in the bathroom at the diner. What is it with angels and bathrooms, by the way? Someone needs to introduce you all to a little thing called boundaries."

Castiel turned away, trying not to remember the sight of Dean on those three occasions when he had accidentally interrupted him in the shower. Though at the time he hadn't felt anything out of the ordinary, he knew that thinking about it now would probably stir up more uncomfortable desire. His jaw twitched with the effort of pushing the memories away, and Dean continued.

"Anyway, he fixed my hand. He um... told me that... well," Dean paused, and a tired, somewhat nervous smile twitched over his face as he looked back at the road, "never mind. It's all good now, anyway."

Remembering his own conversation with the archangel, Castiel wondered what exactly it was that Gabriel had said. He swallowed around the panic bubbling in his chest and stared out the window as Dean flexed the fingers on his hand as if to prove that it was fine. He felt like he should respond, but worried his voice would betray him. He settled for a non-committal, "Oh."

Dean seemed to sense something under the word anyway, and he eyed Castiel as he explained.

"You were all zoned out when I got back, and then the food arrived, and... you know, " he shrugged, "forgot about it."

Castiel nodded and leaned down to turn up the stereo.

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive; Castiel agonizing over what Gabriel could have said to Dean to make him smirk like that, and Dean wondering if he should bring it up.

 _Nope_ , Dean thought. _Too damn awkward_.

The sight of Bobby's rusted gates was one for sore eyes.

* * *

That night, as he sat with Dean and Bobby in the library, flipping through a seemingly endless stack of books for some way to track down and kill Death, Castiel decided it was time to put the idea he had formed in the car into practice. He put his book down and stood up, wondering what he should tell the two hunters when they asked where he was going, but neither of them looked up. After an awkward pause, he realised that they weren't paying attention, counted it as a small blessing, and walked out of the room.

He made his way upstairs as quietly as he could, listening to the sound of a quiet radio mingling with running water and feeling a kind of nervous tension in his limbs that was entirely different to the one he had felt before. He supposed it was anticipation, hopr that it would turn out that what he had been feeling had nothing to do with Dean and he could forget about it. At the bathroom door, he stopped. It was mostly closed, save for an inch or so, and he stood with one hand on the door frame, peering in. A pile of clothes was crumpled on the floor, and on the edge of a sink a small radio played quiet country music. He thought he could hear a voice humming along to the song, though it may have been an echo. After a moment, the water cut off, and through the crack he saw Sam step out of a cloud of steam, ruffling his wet hair.

As Sam lifted a towel, drying his face, Castiel saw the tattoo on his chest, identical to Deans, and felt nothing. He allowed his eyes to wander across Sam's toned muscles, his skin slightly pink from the heat of the water, and noted that though he could appreciate that the hunter was attractive, he felt no specific attraction. He frowned, leaning closer to the door as Sam turned, lowering the towel to dry his arms. As he did Castiel's eyes travelled downward, over the small of the hunters back, and-

"What the hell are you doing?"

Castiel jerked away from the door, an instant blush rising on his cheeks. Dean was standing in the hallway behind him, a look of utter bewilderment and something else-disgust, thought Castiel-on his face. Castiel floundered. He stuttered.

"I... uh..."

He blinked rapidly, trying to collect his thoughts as Dean just stared at him. He had never wanted to blink himself out of existence so much as right now. He took a faltering step forward, toward Dean, silently praying that Sam hadn't heard him speak.

"I was... uh. Just... um."

He had nothing. He stared back at the hunter, desperately racking his brain for some scrap of a reason he could possibly have for spying on Sam, but there was nothing.

 _Nothing but the truth_ , he thought.

Castiel gulped. It was too much. The air in the hallway suddenly felt too thin, the walls too close. Before he could say anything to further incriminate himself, he ran. Past the hunter, down the stairs, and out the front door into the yard. He heard Dean shout after him but he couldn't bring himself to turn around.

"Hey!"

He could feel himself shaking, but whether it was from the cold air of the scrapyard or the onset of a panic attack he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he was humiliated. The repulsed expression he had seen flash across Dean's face, a look of resentment, of judgement; it left him feeling that same hollow feeling he had been noticing with increasing intensity since he woke up in New Orleans. The more he thought about it, he realised that the feeling was always there, but he only really noticed the space within when he didn't have something else to focus on. It was like every bad thing he felt, every embarrassment, every shameful thought, every single instance of pain, all of it originated and converged there, in that empty space. It was a black hole at his core. Wherever his grace had gone, he had no doubt that this gap was where it had been before.

He zipped up the front of the sweater loaned to him by Sam and sunk his hands into the pockets, trying to fold in on himself and wishing he were just invisible.

As he wound his way through the scrapyard, finally sinking to the ground between the rusted shell of an old Dodge and a stack of busted fenders, he felt his breath coming in short bursts. It was the plane ride all over again. Things were spiralling out of his control. He was tired, lost, helpless, and now he had gone and made a complete and utter fool of himself in front of the only person who-

 _No_ , he told himself. _Don't think about him_.

He sat there in the dirt for almost an hour. Hunched and hiding. Hiding! An angel of the lord, hiding in shame! It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad. He felt the damp earth beneath him, and dug his fingers in, trying to focus on the physical. Willing the sensation of something tangible to ground him like the metal roof of the Impala had after fighting Pestilence. It didn't work.

Despite every best effort to steer his thoughts away from the hunter, they settled there anyway. His every molecule was drawn in. It was as inescapable as gravity. Finally, he resigned himself to his fate, and allowed the thoughts to flow freely. Hundreds of tiny moments flickered through his mind, smiles, touches, the sound of his own name being called, long moments spent just looking at one another, silences loaded with countless complex emotions he had no name for.

But one stood out. One single feeling that overrode all others.

And all at once, Castiel knew. It had happened slowly, so slowly that he hadn't seen it himself until now, but it had happened. The bond he felt was more than that of an angel and his charge. He had known that much for a while, had presumed this stronger feeling was merely that of friendship, but now... now he realised. These were not feelings of friendship. This was more. This, he realised, was love. And not the kind he felt for his brothers and sisters, or even for God, but not unlike it either. It was as though an extra part of himself had come into being, allowing him to feel another layer of emotion that had been invisible to him before. Being near Dean felt like home, it felt right, but at the same time, he knew that telling the hunter any of this was bound to end badly. He wanted to laugh out loud and scream at the same time.

 _No wonder people go mad with this feeling,_ he thought. _This is hell._

Castiel shook his head as if trying to dislodge the realisation and sink back into blissful ignorance of his own feelings. He was profoundly aware of how much of a mess it would make things if Dean were to realise and not reciprocate, and even if he did reciprocate, things could still be ruined.

The thought that things were ruined now anyway crossed his mind, and he winced. He dug the little packet of pills from his pocket.

 _This is a kind of pain_ , he figured.

In the dark, he swallowed the pills and waited for them to do their job. He laid his head back against the rusted car and stared up at the sky, watching the blinking stars. When another hour of waiting didn't make any difference, he pulled himself to his feet and started back toward the house, uncertain of what exactly he was going to do.

He stood at the base of the stairs, staring up at the yellow glow of the windows, and wondered how he got here. Not for the last time, he begged his Father to help him.

As always. his prayers were met only with silence.


	13. Tricks

Bobby's front door swung open with a creak, and Castiel made his way back inside, trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible. Whatever was going to happen, he doubted it would be good. On some level he knew that he was going to have to explain himself, but he was tired, and he was cold, and he had decided to just get the horrible moment over with.

He could hear low voices coming from the kitchen. Dean and Sam and Bobby, talking. He walked quietly through the house and paused just within earshot. Dean's voice floated out into the hall, rough and tired.

"Well I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

"Hell, neither do I," Sam replied, "but we're kind of running low on options here."

"Yeah, I guess."

He heard the clink of glass on glass as the fridge door was pulled open. Dean spoke again.

"Want another beer?"

A chair scraped across the floor, and Sam replied through a yawn.

"Nah, I'm gonna call it."

"Me too," Bobby said, "it's been a long one."

"Kay. Night."

The squeak of Bobby's wheels and one set of footsteps approached the door, and Castiel tried to disguise the fact that he had been eavesdropping by walking through it. Sam walked right into him.

"Whoa, hey Cas!"

Castiel stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for the unavoidable tirade of accusations, for the protests about invasion of personal space and privacy and who knew what else, but none came. He glanced past Sam at Dean, who was casually leaning against the counter and suddenly seemed very interested in the label on his beer.

"Where did you disappear to, anyway?"

As Sam spoke, Bobby looked Castiel up and down, noticing the dirt under his nails. The tired hunter narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me you didn't try to make a deal."

When Bobby spoke, the older Winchester let out a snort and muttered something under his breath. Bobby glared at him for a moment before turning back to Castiel. Castiel, meanwhile, was still staring at Dean, wondering why nobody was shouting at him. He was expecting _something_. He didn't want them to be angry with him, but this silence? This was worse. Sam looked at Castiel with concern and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey? You alright?"

He was so zoned out, lost in his own thoughts, that the unexpected touch startled him. He jerked back reflexively, and Sam pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine," he told Sam, then glanced down at Bobby, "Don't worry. I didn't summon anything. I was just... in the yard."

Sam looked dubious, but he nodded. Bobby just frowned.

"Right. Well, night Cas."

They both made their way past Castiel, leaving him in the kitchen with Dean, who was still staring intently at his bottle in between mouthfuls. Castiel's hands felt clammy. He wiped them on his borrowed jeans and took a deep breath.

"Dean?"

The hunter didn't look up. Castiel chewed anxiously on his lower lip, wishing he had come up with some excuse for why he had been watching Sam, because he had a feeling that this awful awkward silence would just go on forever until he explained himself. But he could find no reasons that would make it better. He made his way further into the kitchen and his hands moved nervously at his sides as he waited for Dean to respond. When he didn't, Castiel leapt toward the first topic that came to mind, desperate to shatter the silence with something. Anything.

"What were you talking about just now?"

Dean tilted the bottle to his mouth before glancing, finally, at Castiel.

"Apparently Bobby had a visit from Crowley earlier. He said he can point us toward Death, but... well. You can guess what he wanted in return," Dean shook his head and laughed without humor, "and what I would give to have _that_ image Eternal Sunshined out of my head."

This was the last straw. Not only was Dean acting like the whole incident earlier had never happened, he was yet _again_ referencing something Castiel could not possibly understand. He felt his eye twitch a little.

_Is he doing this on purpose?_

After a moment Castiel's discomfort gave way to sheer frustration, and he spoke harshly.

"Eternal _what_?"

Dean just shrugged.

"A photo I wish I could forget," Dean shuddered, "Bobby and Crowley locking lips is not something anyone should have to see."

Castiel practically growled as he stormed across the kitchen to the fridge and pulled out one of Dean's beers, twisting the lid off roughly and throwing it into the sink. Dean stared at him.

"Why didn't you just say that, then?"

Dean stood up straight, raising his palms toward his friend. The sight of Castiel so pissed off reminded him a little too much of that night in the alley a few weeks earlier, and paired with the less-than-normal impulsive drinking, it set the hunter on edge.

"Whoa, relax. What's your problem?"

"You never just say what you're thinking, you always have to make some reference that you _know_ I won't get and..." Castiel huffed in frustration, his voice betraying how on edge he really was, "why don't you just say what you mean?"

This struck a nerve. Dean's face twitched into a glare; a bitchface to rival Sam's.

"Why don't you?"

For a moment, Castiel froze. He wondered if this is the moment he had been waiting for. His tongue darted out over his dry lips as his mind raced. It almost seemed as though Dean knew what he had been thinking, what he had been feeling. Castiel realized suddenly that he actually wanted to tell him. No, more than that, he _needed_ to tell him. But he couldn't. Not yet. He was afraid. He gulped.

"I... I'm sorry, I need to get some air."

Before Dean could respond, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. The hunter stared after him.

 _That's it_ , thought Dean. _Can't avoid it any longer._

He finished off his beer, took a deep breath, and tried to psych himself up. This was going to suck.

* * *

By the time he got onto the veranda, Castiel had drained three quarters of the bottle. There was a pain in his chest again. That same pain, the distant ache that refused to fade. He dug around in his pocket and took out the last of the painkillers. As he swallowed them, washing them down with another swig of beer, Dean walked out of the house behind him. He saw the empty pill box on the ground by the ex-angels feet and felt a fresh wave of worry.

"How many of those have you taken?"

Castiel didn't turn around.

"Just now, or in total?"

Dean let out a long breath and rubbed his hands over his face, cursing himself for giving Castiel the pills in the first place, especially considering what he'd seen in 2014.

 _One problem at a time_ , he thought.

He walked up beside Castiel and leaned his elbows against the railing, staring out into the yard. After a moment, he worked up the nerve and spoke.

"I know, Cas," Dean paused, his expression tense, "Gabriel told me."

Castiel felt like his legs were going to give way. This was all wrong. Deans voice sounded pained, like he knew he was about to hurt Castiel but had to do it. Castiel tensed his jaw and pressed his eyes closed, willing himself to disappear. When he didn't, he settled on playing dumb. He might not be able to avoid the inevitable hurt forever, but he could at least hold it off for a couple of minutes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean."

Dean sighed and drummed his fingers nervously over the railing. He seemed unable to look at Castiel.

"Look, I kind of figured you weren't all that keen on the ladies after that whole thing with Chastity, so trust me, it's no big deal."

Castiel felt his throat seize up. He wasn't ready for this. Words didn't want to form, so he just stood there, trying to focus on remaining upright. He raised the bottle to his lips, and was swallowing the last dregs of his beer when Dean spoke again.

"I know you've got a... thing for Sam."

Castiel choked on his beer.

 _Oh, no_.

He coughed and spluttered, his eyes stinging. He shook his head madly as he tried to clear his throat. Dean misinterpreted this as a panicked denial of his feelings. He awkwardly patted Castiel on the shoulder.

"It's okay, really. I won't say anything to him. Just... maybe cut out the creepy staring, okay?"

Finally, Castiel found his voice.

"No, Dean, I'm not attracted to _Sam_."

As soon as he said it, he hoped desperately that Dean hadn't noticed the emphasis he had placed on his brothers name. Judging by Dean's surprised response, he hadn't.

"You're not?"

"No!"

Dean frowned, looking back out into the yard, before glancing back at his friend, tilting his head down as if trying to ascertain whether or not Castiel was telling the truth.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Castiel rolled his eyes.

"Huh."

The two of them stood there in confused silence for a moment before Castiel remembered something that Dean had said. He turned to the hunter.

"Gabriel really told you that?"

"Yeah. At the diner," Dean paused, a smirk playing across his face, "seems like kind of a weird way to mess with you, but I'll give him points for creativity."

Castiel glared out into the dark. He had a pretty good idea of what Gabriel was trying to do, and it left him with the kind of anger that would usually have caused him to burst all the light bulbs in a two mile radius.

"I will _kill_ him."

Dean chuckled to himself.

"Yeah, I don't blame you. Anyway, I'm glad that awkwardness is over."

Dean clapped Castiel on the back and walked inside, calling out over his shoulder.

"Come on, it's still early and I think there's a Star Trek marathon on."

Castiel stared after him, unsure about whether or not this was a good outcome. After a moment, he shook his head and followed the hunter inside. The ache in his chest was in rare form. He hoped this _Star Trek_ would prove to be distracting enough to pull his attention away from it.


	14. Too Much, Too Much

The house was quiet, save for Sam's snoring, which echoed through the halls from his place in Bobby's old room.

Castiel rubbed his chest, waiting for the painkillers to do their work. Instead he just felt the ache spreading out through his limbs. It nestled in his head. He was vaguely aware of his legs wobbling, and put it down to his moment of panic on the veranda.

As the two men made their way past the library, they glanced in and saw the outline of Bobby's wheelchair, reflecting moonlight from the window. Bobby lay asleep on the couch with his back to the door, a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders. Dean stared in at him for a moment, then pulled the doors closed. He was concerned about the older hunter; making a deal with Crowley had implications. Castiel saw the look of apprehension but his brain didn't seem to want to work fast enough, and before he could say anything, it was gone. Dean turned and kept walking.

On the stairs, every step seemed to bring with it another wave of dizziness. They moved quietly through the dark, finally reaching the room that Dean had commandeered for himself. Dean flicked on the light and Castiel squinted at the sudden brightness. He raised a clammy palm to his face and rubbed his eyes, seeing spots behind the lids. When his vision had cleared, he looked around.

The room was small and cluttered. An ancient CRT TV sat on top of a chest of drawers by the closet, between a pile of books and what appeared to be the leg bone of a fox. Castiel crossed the room and sat down on the narrow single bed with his back to the window as Dean plugged in the old set. It came on with a buzz and a hiss, and Dean wriggled the antenna around until the fuzzy picture was only occasionally interrupted by lines of static. He wiped a layer of dust off the small screen and flicked through the channels. Finally, he arrived on an image of a man in a mustard-colored uniform talking to a tall, pointy-eared man in blue as a woman kneaded his shoulders. Dean laughed out loud.

"Oh, man. Shore Leave!" He grinned, turning back to look at Castiel, "I love this one."

When he saw his friend, the smile disappeared. Castiel was breathing heavily, arms crossed tightly over his stomach with his eyes closed. Dean took a step toward him.

"Cas?"

Castiel could hear a loud ringing in his ears. It cut through his consciousness, making the ache in his head worse. It left him nauseated. He let out a deep breath and forced his eyes open to look at Dean.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"It's a high pitched... ringing. Distant but... distinct."

Dean tenses, glancing around the room for evidence of any extra visitors.

"Is it the angels?"

Castiel tilted his head, concentrating on Dean. It took him a moment to work out why on earth the hunter would make that connection.

"Is that what we- that's what angels sound like to you?"

Dean nodded and Castiel immediately felt awful for the times he had tried to speak to Dean with his true voice.

"Oh. Sorry," he paused, "but no, it's not the angels. I think..."

He frowned and looked down at the floorboards, his voice quiet as though he was talking to himself.

"I think... I think it's coming from inside my head."

He tried to swallow, but found his mouth suddenly bone dry. His forehead was a little sweaty. Dean took another step toward him.

"Cas, are you okay?"

Castiel blinked.

"Just... dizzy. My head is aching," he looked up at Dean hopefully, "do you have any more of those pills?

Dean felt that nervous pit in his stomach again as he looked back at Castiel.

"No," he narrowed his eyes, "and you never answered me before. How many did you take?

Castiel shrugged, avoiding Dean's gaze. Something told him he had made a mistake, and in his current state of unease, he didn't feel up to the argument he was certain was brewing.

"Last time you just told me to _'down the whole bottle_.' I thought I was being conservative."

"Dammit, Cas. How many?"

Castiel shrugged again. After a second he spoke quietly.

"Six this morning. Four more just over an hour ago when I was in the yard, and the last four just before you followed me outside."

Cas raised a hand to his chest and rubbed it with a grimace. His eyes closed and he gritted his teeth. He felt as though his heart were beating a little too fast. Stuttering and buzzing like the TV signal.

"I don't think they are working."

Dean stared at him, his expression pained.

"Jesus, Cas. Fourteen in one day? You don't have super powers any more. You're lucky you're still conscious."

Dean pressed the back of his hand against Cas' damp forehead and Castiel flinched at the contact. He stared at the hunter with wide, fearful eyes.

"Shit. You're burning up. Wait here."

Dean rushed out of the room. Castiel was vaguely aware of his footsteps thundering down the stairs into the kitchen. After a few minutes he came back with a jug and a plastic bucket. He put the bucket on the floor by the bed and held the jug out to Cas.

"Drink."

Castiel took the jug. It was heavy and his arms felt weak, but he managed to raise it to his mouth. As soon as it came near his face an intense smell hit his nostrils and he looked up at Dean, his head swimming.

"What is it?"

"Salt water."

Castiel sipped from the jug. The luke-warm liquid was gritty, more salt than water, and he pulled a face at the overpowering taste.

"It's horrible."

"Well you need to get that crap out of your system, and this is the easiest way. It ain't gonna be pretty but you'll thank me later."

He let out a breath, readying himself, and took another small sip. Dean sat down beside him.

"Don't sip. The whole lot, down the hatch," he paused, "it's this or we go get your stomach pumped. I'm not taking any chances."

Castiel did as he was told, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of the warm water until his stomach was overfull and churning.

"Dean... I don't feel so good."

"That's kind of the point."

Dean took the empty jug and held the bucket up just in time. Castiel heaved, his whole body shuddering as his body rejected the salt water. His eyes watered as he gripped the bucket, Dean's hand resting on his back. The hunter looked at him with pity.

"You're okay," he moved his hand over Castiel's shoulder, speaking quietly, "you're okay."

Finally, after what felt like forever, his stomach was empty. Castiel coughed, struggling to breathe as the bile stung in his throat. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his teeth. After a couple of seconds he felt Dean's hand leave his back, and the bucket was pulled away. He heard footsteps, running water, a door opening and closing again. When he opened his eyes again, Dean was walking back into the room, carrying a towel. Castiel took it. It was soaked in warm water, and he pressed it over his face.

"Feel better?"

"A little," Castiel looked up at Dean with gratitude, his eyes red and tired, "thank you, Dean."

Dean tried his best to give a comforting smile but it was barely visible through the worry that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his face. He knew that they would have to talk about this, about why Castiel took so much in the first place, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The ex-angel looked wrecked.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought, as he dug through his duffel bag.

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the blanket. The headache had faded, the ringing in his ears had stopped, and though his skin was still a little clammy, he could tell that his temperature was returning to normal. But the ache, the one he had tried so hard to be rid of, was still there. It was sharper without the physical pain to take the edge off. Dean's voice was a welcome distraction.

"Here," he held out some clothes, "Go take a shower. You'll feel better."

Castiel took them. After a moment, he slowly got to his feet and left.

Dean waited at the door. When the shower clunked on, he went back to the bed and sat down, staring at the TV screen. The images in front of him barely registered in his mind as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do. The fact that he had come to be in a situation where he was going to have to have a heart to heart with a fallen angel about the dangers of reckless drinking and self medication was beyond ridiculous, even by his standards. But this was it, he realized. If he didn't do something now, Castiel was going to become that broken, defeated man from 2014. The thought troubled him more than he could have anticipated. Castiel was constant, dependable. The hunter had come to think of him as being practically indestructible. He was always there, always came when Dean needed him, even when he didn't realise he did. His time in the Croatoan-infested future had made it perfectly clear to him that he had come to rely on the angel. He had broken the one rule of his life when he had allowed himself to become attached, to become a friend.

Hell, if he were being honest with himself, the guy was his best friend. And he _really_ hadn't meant to let that happen. Friends were dangerous enough; having a best friend was just asking for the universe to bring some more hurt down on you. This was proof.

He let out a heavy sigh and laid back on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck."

* * *

After his shower, Castiel walked slowly back to the room. Although his vessel-or perhaps it just his body now-felt better, warm and refreshed from the shower, the empty space within was raw and agonizing. It was worse. Much worse. He was going to have to call Gabriel tomorrow; there had to be something they could do. He didn't know how he was going to be able to function if it got any worse. He had already decided not to mention it to Dean. There was nothing that the hunter would be able to do, and the last thing he needed right now was another of Castiel's problems to deal with.

When he got to the spare room he saw Dean lounging back on the bed, his head propped up on his hand as he stared at the TV. His eyes reflected the flickering light. He looked relaxed, as relaxed as he'd seen him for a while, and Castiel smiled to himself.

When he heard the footsteps, Dean looked up to see Castiel framed by the doorway. His hair was wet and messy, sticking up in places and flat in others. A patch of bubbles clung to one side of his face where he had missed them with the towel, and the thickening stubble on his jaw stood out against the pink of his skin, still flushed from the hot water. His eyes gave away how exhausted he was, but the small smile that had settled on his face told Dean that, for now at least, he was okay. He might not have looked exactly like Cas, but he looked good. Tired but healthy. It was a relief, and Dean felt an unexpected warmth as he looked up at his friend.

"Better?"

"Much," Castiel lied, "I'm tired though."

"Yeah, no surprise there," Dean pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to switch off the TV, "I was about to call it a night anyway."

"Oh, okay."

Castiel paused a moment, not entirely sure of where he was supposed to be sleeping. The couch was taken, Sam was in Bobby's room, and as far as he knew there weren't any other bedrooms. After a second he remembered that the panic room in the basement had a military cot, and he turned to leave. Dean, who was standing on his toes trying to reach something at the back of the closet, glanced over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"The panic room."

Dean pulled a pile of worn old blankets from the closet and laid them flat on the floor, rolling his eyes.

"Dude, you're not sleeping in the panic room," he grabbed a pillow and threw it down on top of his makeshift mattress of blankets, "You can take the bed."

The hunter didn't wait for a response. He kicked off his shoes and laid down on the floor, pulling one of the blankets over himself. Castiel smiled down at him.

"Okay. Thank you, Dean."

A half-smile softened Deans features as he rolled onto his side. He closed his eyes.

"Night, Cas."


	15. There Is A Lake, There Is A Chasm

_There is a lake, wide and calm in the golden light, and beyond it a vast forest of red-leaved maple, branches swaying in the cool breeze. The sun is low in the sky, sinking between two distant mountains. Somewhere nearby he can hear birds calling, singing; their complex melodies weaving together in the air with the soft sound of lapping water at the lakes edge. He watches Dean, sitting on a smooth boulder that juts out over the water, throwing stones that skim its surface. Tiny ripples roll out into nothing. Castiel moves slowly toward him over the pebbled ground, feeling the warm breeze in his hair. Dean hears him approaching and turns, his face lighting up when he sees who it is. Here, his eyes are bright; he is not tired, he is not distant. Castiel smiles back; a wide, honest, all-or-nothing grin. Dean shifts to one side of the boulder, making space, and Castiel sits down beside him. After a moment he takes Dean's hand into his own, tracing over the lines in the hunters palm with his thumb and smiling to himself at the contact. He raises his eyes to look at Dean, and finds him smiling back. Dean opens his mouth to say something, and silence descends on the lake. The water stops lapping, the birds stop singing. Castiel stands, pulling Dean up with him, and they stare out into the trees. The earth begins to shake. The lake behind them churns and boils, sound suddenly returning to the world with a deafening roar. From the shadows walks Lucifer. He smirks at Castiel, then turns his gaze to Dean, lifting one hand into the air and squeezing. The hunter falls to his knees, gasping and choking, and Castiel touches his fingers to his head, trying to help him. Nothing happens. He looks up to find Lucifer laughing. He twists his hand in the air and Dean writhes in agony. Castiel tries again to fly Dean away, to mend his lungs, to help. Nothing. Lucifer still laughs. He pulls the hand toward himself and Dean is dragged with it, the pebbles on the ground no longer smooth and round but hard and jagged. They rip into his skin. Castiel tries to chase after him, but with his first step Lucifer snaps his legs, sending him to the ground in agony. He screams at his brother to stop, to leave Dean, please. Lucifer just laughs louder. He grabs hold of Dean and pulls him to his feet. The hunter staggers, unable to support his own weight. His lips are turning blue from lack of oxygen, and his eyes are drifting closed. Lucifer holds him up, looking down at the ground behind him. A fissure appears, spreading out, quickly becoming a deep chasm. Fire licks its edges and the sound of souls, tortured and destroyed, comes loud and rending from within. Lucifer forces Deans eyes open and turns him to face Castiel. There is pleading in his eyes. Help me. Please. Castiel can't move. He tries to heal his legs. To climb to his feet and save Dean, but nothing happens. Tears spill down his cheeks as he stares at Dean with desperation. He tries to pull himself up but the broken bones send him crashing down with each attempt. PLEASE, CAS. Castiel never takes his eyes away from the hunter, and as Lucifer shoves him backwards into the pit, the flames eating away at his clothes, his hair, his skin, he sees nothing but confusion and pain in Dean's eyes. He screams Dean's name helplessly. Lucifer is laughing maniacally, but a voice cuts through-_

"Cas?

_-like a question, calling him from someplace far away. The pit is growing, stretching out, and Lucifer grins like a twisted child with a magnifying glass over an anthill. Castiel tries to drag himself toward the voice as it comes again-_

"Cas, wake up. Cas."

_-but what it is saying doesn't make sense, because he is awake, he must be, he doesn't dream, he can't dream, yet-_

"Cas!"

He opened his eyes with a start.

After a second Dean came into focus, standing over him in the dark, both hands on Castiel's shoulders. The hunter looked tired and uneasy in the pale moonlight; his expression tense as he stared down at Castiel's tear-stained face. Castiel felt his eyes grow wide, the memory of his dream still sharp in his mind. The hole in his chest gave a wrenching throb, and for a moment he wasn't sure if he was really awake. His voice was shaky and rough.

"Dean?"

The image of Dean falling into the pit, being sent back to that burning, destroying place that he had worked so hard to save him from, burned in his minds eye, and without thinking he sat up and pulled the hunter into a crushing hug. He held on tight, afraid to let go as a fresh wave of tears ran down his face to dampen Dean's t-shirt. His breath came in short bursts as the panic of his nightmare refused to fade. After a moment, he realized that Dean was hugging him back. The hunters arms wrapped around him, pressing into his back, trying to stop the shaking. Castiel tried to regulate his breath to no avail.

"Hey, hey, it was just a nightmare, you're okay."

Castiel pressed his face into Dean's shoulder, trying to let the warmth there calm him.

"Cas? You're kind of scaring me, dude."

He took a deep breath. Before he could stop himself, the shame and self-pity and fear that he had been trying so hard to keep from talking about all came pouring out of his mouth.

"I'm useless. I know I'm useless. I can't do anything to help you or Sam or anyone. Without my grace I'm just... nothing. I'm less than useless. I can't fight. I can't do anything and what happens when you need me and I can't help? What if Lucifer... what if something..." Castiel tried to steady himself, embarrassed by his own honesty, by how exposed he felt in admitting his vulnerability, "I hate this, Dean. I'm... I... I can feel it."

"You can feel what?"

Castiel's voice came out weak and small.

"The void. I can feel the space where my grace used to be, and it hurts, Dean. It aches. But the painkillers don't fix it. I don't think they can, because it's not physical. It's just this hollowness. It's inaccessible and _vast_ and I'll never be able to fill it. Not ever."

Dean pulled back, his hands on Castiel's shoulders as he faced him directly, forcing his broken friend to listen to him, to believe him.

"We'll fix it. You hear me? We'll figure something out."

Castiel smiled weakly.

"No, we wont."

In the dark, the look of pity that flickered across Dean's face was almost impossible to see. Almost. Castiel let go of him and laid back down, turning his face away.

"It can't be fixed. I've fallen, Dean."

He closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. Briefly he felt the hunters hand brush over his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, and he pressed his eyes even more tightly closed, trying to ignore the part of himself that wanted to ask him to stay, to hold him.

After a while he felt the mattress raise a little as Dean stood and went back to his own bed. Castiel allowed himself to open his eyes and stared out the window at the sky.

He prayed until he couldn't think straight and slipped once more into unconsciousness.

Thankfully, this time, his sleep was free of dreams.

* * *

Dean hadn't slept since he had been woken by Castiel's nightmare-induced cries; the whole night had been spent sitting up on his makeshift mattress, his back to the wall and his eyes trained on the constantly tossing and turning form in the bed. He had guessed before that Castiel was hurting, but he hadn't realised how much, or how defeated the ex-angel had become.

In the slow-building light of dawn, Dean leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. He had never asked for a best friend.

He'd actively avoided having any friends, any relationships outside of family, but somehow Castiel had wormed his way in. Dean could no longer imagine a world without the nerd angel in it. He helped. Having a friend helped. He was more than a little aware of the fact that of all the times he had laughed in the past year, most of them had been when he was with Cas, and those moments of laughter gave him something to look forward to. He had always thought friends were a weakness, but in Castiel he had found someone that gave him strength, just by having faith in him.

Seeing him like this, so broken and with no faith in himself, left Dean with a weight in his chest that he couldn't bear.

He needed Cas, powers or no, and he realized now that if they were going to beat this thing, he was going to have to find a way to make Castiel see that.

When the sun rose, Dean pushed himself to his feet. After hours of thinking he still had no idea what to do, and so, when finally Castiel's sleep had become calm and uninterrupted by nightmares, he left the room to wake Sam.

His brother had always been the insightful one.


	16. Knowing

In the kitchen, Dean waited.

And waited.

And _waited_.

Sam had not been thrilled by his horribly early wake up call-particularly because of Dean's less-than-considerate method of throwing a balled up pair of socks at his head-and as a result had been taking his sweet time to come downstairs.

Dean fidgeted in his seat, drumming his fingers over the table. After close to an hour, Sam wandered into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge, ignoring his brother while he poured himself the last of the orange juice. Finally he sat down opposite Dean and yawned widely.

"Alright. What is it?"

Dean glared at him.

"Could you have taken any longer?"

Sam glared back.

"It's early. I'm tired."

Dean pulled a face at him as if to say, _big fucking deal_ , and Sam tensed his jaw. He was still half asleep, and in no mood for Dean's crap. He swallowed a mouthful of juice and waited for Dean to speak. He didn't.

"If you don't start talking soon, I'm going back to bed."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face.

"Yeah, alright."

He sighed and started with the conversation he'd had with Cas at the diner. He told Sam about the stupid comment he had made and the hurt on Castiel's face. He told him about the awful silent drive, about how lost he looked at the motel. He told Sam about how since then he had seen Cas becoming more and more morose whenever he thought no-one was watching him, about the brave face that he was so clearly trying, and failing, to put up. He told him about the minor breakdown from the night before (skipping over the part about the ex-angel watching Sam in the shower, which frankly, he was yet to figure out the reason for) and about the reckless use of painkillers. He told him about Castiel crying out to him in his sleep, as if in pain. How he had damn near broken his ribs when he grabbed hold of him so tightly. The way he had cried.

The way he had held on as if his life depended on it.

Throughout the whole explanation, Sam was quiet. He listened and nodded, frowning when Dean mentioned the pills. Finally, when Dean fell silent, he sat up straight, chewing on his lower lip as he tried to come up with the right way to approach what he needed to say. He stared at the table, thinking. Dean was restless.

"Come on, Sam. Anything? He's a mess, I can't stand it."

"Well, obviously you'll have to talk to him about it."

Dean leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He rubbed his temples and groaned.

"No shit, Sam. But what are we supposed to say?"

"Not _we_ , Dean. You."

Dean sat up again, his expression indignant as he looked at his brother.

"Why just me? I suck when it comes to this stuff."

"You know why, Dean."

" _Why_?"

"Because he'll listen to you. And more than that, it's... don't take this the wrong way, but I'm pretty sure that this whole thing is _because_ of you."

Affronted, Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"Cas popping pills is somehow my fault?"

"No, no that's not what I meant," Sam stared him down, "really."

"Then what?"

Sam let out a deep breath.

"Losing his grace."

"How the hell-?"

"Dean, listen..." he paused, looking at him with a pity that confused Dean more than anything, "you... you know he's... Ugh, this is tough."

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Sam stood up, staring at the now empty glass in his hands. He chewed on his lip again.

"Look, try not to freak out or anything, but... Cas is uh... he's pretty _attached_ to you."

Dean felt his pulse speed up a little and a flush crept over his cheeks.

"What? What do you..." Dean took a breath, "what do you mean, 'attached'?"

Sam rolled the glass between his hands and carried it to the sink, unable to look at his brother. He rinsed out the glass, taking more time with it than was probably necessary. After a while, he turned to find Dean still staring at him, waiting.

Sam shifted his feet and averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable.

"Come on man, don't make me say it. You must know."

The younger hunter had never looked so awkward. He clicked his teeth together, waiting for Dean to figure it out on his own. Dean, on the other hand, was just getting nervous. The conversation had taken an abrupt turn into uncharted territory, and if Sam was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to what Dean was feeling.

"I really don't, Sam."

"He has... you know," Sam paused, waiting, but Dean just stared at him, forcing him to say it; " _feelings_. For you."

Dean made a strangled noise that was barely human; somewhere in between a laugh and a cough. His eyes were wide with panic, and as Sam had half-expected, the hint of a vain smile was trying to break through the wall of embarrassment and fear.

" _What_?"

"You must have had some idea. It's completely obvious, Dean. Bobby and I talked about it ages ago."

"You and Bobby talked about-?" Dean raised his knuckle to his lips as he shook his head with closed eyes, as if trying to cancel out the information.

After a moment he opened his eyes again and stared at Sam, panic written all over his features.

"Why would he-? I mean... are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. But I doubt he's planning to act on it."

Dean stood up and leaned heavily against the kitchen table. It took a lot to freak Dean out, but this... this had thrown him for a loop. What was really nagging at him though was that a little part of him was _thrilled_ , and he didn't exactly know how he was supposed to handle that. True, it was no secret that the older Winchester liked to be liked, and as far as admirers went, this was about as flattering as it got. But still, what the hell?

 _No,_ he thought. _This is ridiculous._

Sam had no idea what he was talking about. Castiel couldn't possibly have feelings for Dean. He didn't have feelings for anyone. Angels just weren't wired that way. A little voice piped up in the back of his mind, reminding him of Anna, and he shook his head. No. He could feel his hands trembling.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally finding his voice.

"Sam," his tone carried the hint of a threat, and Sam grimaced, "I don't know where the hell you got this idea in your head, but you can go right ahead and forget it. For one, the guy is a freaking _angel_ -"

"Not any more."

"Dammit, Sam! They don't even have feelings!"

Dean felt his temper flare, and Sam looked at him with disbelief.

"Are you _kidding_ me, Dean?"

"Okay. Alright," Dean steadied himself against the table, "but even if it's true-and I'm not saying it is—why does that make it my fault?"

Sam shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at Dean.

"It's just something Gabriel said."

Dean raised his head and turned to face his brother.

"Gabriel?"

"Yeah. After he healed me, we were talking for a bit. I asked him about finding Cas' grace, and he said that there are only two ways an angel can fall. One is if they are cast out of Heaven by God as a punishment. He said that hadn't happened."

"What's the other way?"

"If they choose. And get this-it doesn't even have to be a conscious choice. If they want something badly enough, even if they have suppressed it, it can make them fall. I think... I think he wanted to be human. And I think it was because of you."

Dean sank back against the table, resting his palms on its surface. He stared down at the ground, trying to wrap his head around what Sam was telling him and wishing he had never asked for his help. After a moment he spoke quietly.

"Sammy."

"Yeah?"

He looked up, confusion creasing his brow as he met his brothers eyes.

"How the hell was any of this supposed to be helpful?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, paused, and smiled at Dean apologetically.

"Yeah... I have no idea."

He awkwardly slapped a palm on Dean's shoulder and walked out of the kitchen, calling back as he left.

"Good luck."

* * *

Dean went back upstairs not long after, ducking his head into the spare room to check on the angel. He found him still sleeping, one hand curled up in a fist at the center of his chest and a tiny crinkle in his brow as if in pain. Seeing him like that sent a feeling tenderness through the hunter, which in turn gave reign to a whole host of questions and fears he wasn't willing or ready to address. He pulled the door closed to block out the noise of the house, hoping that his friend would sleep a little while longer so he wouldn't have to deal any sooner than he had to.

Now, two hours later, he was back in the kitchen. He had been trying to wrap his head around what Sam had told him, trying to disprove it, but now that the idea was planted in his mind he was analysing everything that Castiel had ever said to him. Every lingering stare, every touch. The hug from last night. The look in his eyes, a look of desperation, of _pleading_. Dean felt his stomach drop and shook his head. It wasn't important, not right now. He had to focus on the things he could fix.

He decided to pretend he didn't know.

He decided that when Cas finally came downstairs, he'd talk to him about the self-medicating, maybe suggest they call Gabriel to help with the grace-related scar tissue, and leave it at that.

Nothing had to change. He had almost managed to stop himself thinking about the look of hopeless desperation in Castiel's eyes when the squeak of Bobby's wheelchair pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up to see Sam striding toward the fridge. Bobby wheeled in behind him and glanced up at Dean.

"Cas still asleep?"

Dean nodded stiffly, wondering if he and Sam had been discussing things again. He walked up beside his brother and peered into the fridge. Besides beer and cheese, it was practically empty. He looked at Sam pointedly.

"Looks like someone's gonna need to do a food run for lunch."

Sam scoffed.

"Yeah, someone."

" _Crowley_."

Bobby's voice caught the their attention, and they both turned around to find the demon standing by the table with an expression of benevolence that somehow only served to make him appear more dangerous than usual.

"Hello, boys," he said, before facing Bobby with a wink, "sweetheart."

When the hunter just glared at him he raised his eyebrows.

"What, no kiss hello?"

Dean snickered to himself as Bobby scowled.

"You'd better have some information."

The demon raised a palm to his throat in mock offence.

"Ooh, come now. Don't be like that."

He sauntered around the room, eyeing the shelves, before turning back to Bobby with a frown.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

Dean's snicker turned into a snort. Sam, unable to suppress his laughter any more let out a low chuckle of his own, and Bobby rolled his eyes, fed up with the Winchester's mockery almost as much as the demon's infuriating method of stalling. He'd never be able to live down that deal-sealing kiss, and it pissed him off to no end. He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Just cut to the damn chase, Crowley."

Crowley sighed and tutted, pulling a small flask from his pocket and pouring a shot into the least dusty glass he could find.

"You're no fun."

He swirled the amber liquid around in the glass and lifted it to his lips, pausing to speak.

"I found Death."

The demon shrugged to himself and downed the lot.

"Or, I should say, I found Death's assistant," he amended, pouring another glass of scotch, "but it's all the same. A little pressure in the right spot and the big guy's schedule just came pouring out."

Dean stepped forward, skeptical.

"You sure they weren't lying?"

Crowley looked at Dean as if he were an idiot.

"Please."

"Well, where is he?"

Crowley swallowed the last of his scotch and returned the glass to the counter.

"Right now? Not sure."

He glanced around the room at the incredulous hunters.

"Tomorrow afternoon though, he'll be in Chicago," he looked at Dean, "You can kill him then."

"How the hell am I meant to kill Death?"

Crowley grinned.

"I'm working on that... wait here, I'll be back tonight."

With one last lewd wink at Bobby, he was gone.

The three hunters stared at each other for a moment, then Bobby shrugged and wheeled out of the kitchen.

"Guess we have some time to kill then. Might as well go get some food. You coming, Sam?"

Sam looked through the door at Bobby's retreating back and frowned.

"Looks like _someone_ is gonna bring me lunch after all, hey Sammy?"

Dean snickered to himself as Sam followed Bobby outside. Before he closed the door he called back.

"Say hi to Cas for me."

He couldn't hear from here, but Dean was pretty sure that Sam was laughing at him.


	17. Repairs

When Castiel finally woke it was past noon. The sun was high and bright, near blinding through the dirty window, and he covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

He was tired, though how that could be after the amount of sleep he'd had was beyond him. All the fear of his nightmare had faded from his mind, and had instead been replaced by the memory of Dean's warmth. He wrapped his own arms around himself and closed his eyes, trying to summon the feeling that had coursed through him when the hunter had held him. What he felt was barely an echo, but it still sent a wave of something tingling and warm through him. He lay there, smiling to himself for a few moments, before finally his new-found humanity forced him to climb out of bed.

Yawning widely, he made his way toward the bathroom on slightly unsteady legs, still half asleep.

In the bathroom he splashed his face with water to wake himself up-something he had seen both Sam and Dean do-and took a moment to look himself over in the mirror. He hadn't really bothered to pay attention to his vessels appearance while he still possessed his grace, but now, considering that he was stuck in it indefinitely, he thought it was as good a time as any to get acquainted. He stood up on his toes and turned from side to side, inspecting the state of his body.

The borrowed navy t-shirt he had put on after last nights shower was rumpled, and he lifted it a little to see a firm, flat stomach. He was slim, not nearly as muscular as Dean or Sam, but in good shape. He wondered briefly if his appearance was pleasing to others as Dean's was to him, but decided that it didn't do to dwell on such things. He was healthy. That was something. Jimmy had obviously taken care of himself, and he was grateful for that. He felt a pang of regret at the pain he had caused the man and his family, but tried to take solace in the fact that his sacrifice had been for the greater good.

With another yawn he sank back onto his heels and faced the mirror straight on, turning his attention to his hair. It stuck up at odd angles on his head, tousled by his restless sleep, and he wondered what exactly he would have to do to make it sit the way it usually did. He scrunched it with his hands, but that only served to make it messier. With a huff he gave up and instead ran his fingers through the stubble on his jaw, learning in the process that he quite liked the texture; rough over smooth.

He leaned close to the mirror, examining his eyes. They were a little bloodshot, presumably from exhaustion, but the red lines somehow made the blue seem brighter. He wondered if tiredness would have the same effect on Dean's green irises, and made a mental note to check as he blinked, watching his pupils dilate and contract.

The thought of Dean's eyes brought the events of the previous night back again in a wild rush, and though he knew that he had made a fool of himself, knew that he had failed horribly at his attempt to spare the hunter from knowing how broken he was, all he could focus on was the memory of waking up to Dean in the middle of the night, and the feeling of the hunter's strong arms holding him tightly. If the hunter could be so compassionate when he was at such a low point, he must really care.

At this thought, Castiel smiled to himself and made his way downstairs, enjoying the sensation of the cool wooden floor on his bare feet.

The house was quiet.

"Dean? Sam?" Castiel ducked his head into the library, the kitchen, "Bobby?"

Nobody answered. He walked through the empty house, listening for any sign of movement. A bubble of panic was forming, and he was about to make his way to the basement when he heard the sound of music coming from outside. It flowed through the house, barely perceptible, but there.

Castiel made his way toward the sound, slipping through the half-open door.

As he crossed the veranda, he noticed the empty box from the painkillers laying where he had dropped it. An overwhelming muddle of shame and gratitude came over him, and he tensed up as he felt another wave of tears coming on. Since falling, his mood had been swinging wildly, and he gritted his teeth as he fought to remain reticent. Every time he had become overly affected by his emotions, the void his grace had once occupied had become unbearably painful.

Instinctively, he rubbed his chest, then froze. It didn't hurt. At all.

For a second he was convinced that his grace had returned, but as soon as he tried to reach out into the ether he knew that it hadn't. He stared around the scrapyard in confusion. He let his gaze wander over the sun-drenched earth, the patches of green breaking through between rusted fenders and half-repaired motors, the vast expanse of bright blue sky. Everything looked... different. Closer to how it had been before he had fallen; the dullness he had become accustomed to over the last couple of days seemed to be fading. He felt certain that his emotions, though they were all over the place, were getting stronger too. He was feeling things with an intensity that he had not anticipated.

Everything was magnified.

 _Maybe I'm g_ _etting better_ , he thought hopefully.

A wide smile broke out on his face, crinkling his eyes, and he practically ran down the steps into the yard toward the music. Before he reached its source, it stopped, and he heard a car door open. A couple of seconds later, loud, crunchy guitar broke through the silence, and along with it came Dean's voice, singing along.

Castiel slowed his pace. Walking out from behind a half-corroded red truck he saw the Impala propped up on a jack, and Dean's legs sliding beneath it as he pulled himself under the engine. The music, which he now recognised from _The Best Album Ever Made And Don't Let Anybody Tell You Different_ came loud through the cars open windows.

At the chorus, Dean's voice got louder.

"...whoaaaa, wanna whole lotta love! Wanna whole lotta love, wanna whole lotta-"

Castiel grinned and walked right up to the car. Dean, hearing his footsteps, stopped singing abruptly, and Castiel ducked down to look at him under the Impala.

"Don't stop on my account."

An embarrassed smile flashed over Dean's face as he spoke.

"Hey, Cas."

Castiel craned his neck to see beneath the car. After a moment he said, almost to himself;

"Leaning down like this is hurting my neck."

Before Dean could reply, Castiel was down on the ground, crawling in beside him. He rolled onto his back beside Dean and looked up at the grease-blackened engine with interest.

"What are you doing?"

"Baking a cake."

Castiel laughed out loud and the hunter smirked at him, apparently enjoying the once-rare event that was Castiel laughing. He turned back to the engine, moving his hands over something Castiel couldn't quite see as he answered seriously.

"Fixing the alternator. Really need to replace it but I couldn't find one, so I'm just patching this one up before tonight."

"What's tonight?"

"Crowley was here this morning..."

Castiel tensed up and Dean glanced at him, shrugging it off.

"He says he found Death. Waiting for him to bring back a... death-killing... thing. I don't know. He wasn't too specific."

"Oh."

"Anyway, he's coming back tonight. Once he delivers the golden gun I'm heading to Chicago. Figured I'd better fix this now just in case."

"Is it difficult?"

"Not for me," he gritted his teeth as he tried to screw a particularly tough part back on, "but a patch-up job won't last long. Need to replace it soon."

Castiel nodded and leaned his head to the side, trying to see what Dean was struggling with above them. The wrench slipped from Dean's hand and hit the ground with a soft thud. They both reached to pick it up, and in the process Castiel's hand closed over Deans. The memory of his dream-before it turned bad-suddenly appeared in his minds eye, and unthinkingly he ran his thumb over the hunters. Dean tensed up immediately, but he didn't pull his hand away.

"Hey, dude... what are _you_ doing?"

Dean stared at Castiel. There was something in his eyes that made the ex-angel's stomach flip. He looked down at their hands and felt a lump in his throat, not entirely sure how to respond, knowing he should take his hand away but really not wanting to.

"You're the best friend I've ever had, Dean."

Dean's tongue darted out over his lips. When he spoke his voice held a tremor that he hadn't quite pinpointed the reason for yet.

"Oh... uh. Thanks."

Castiel raised his eyes to Dean's face. The hunter was still staring at him with uncertainty-no, disbelief.

 _He doesn't believe me,_ thought Castiel, _he still doesn't think he's worth anything_.

Castiel tried his best to look reassuring and gave Dean's hand a brief squeeze.

"Really, Dean. I mean it."

The music was still coming loud from the speakers above them, but neither man could hear a thing beyond what was going on in their own heads. Dean was about five seconds away from all-out-panic. Castiel was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to tell Dean how he felt. He knew that best friend didn't even begin to cover it, but he also knew that telling Dean the true extent of what he was feeling would be the equivalent of opening Pandora's Box. His head and his heart were warring, and before long the feeling became too much. Without giving himself a chance to think about it he leaned across to plant a chaste peck on Deans forehead. He felt Deans breath, warm on his cheek as he pulled away. Dean was wide eyed, a deer in the headlights.

Seeing his reaction, Castiel felt a cold terror come over him. He pulled his hand away, and before Dean could respond, Castiel slid back out from under the car, muttering an apology. He damn near sprinted back to the house.

Dean, meanwhile, lay on the gravel beneath the Impala, blinking rapidly and trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. He raised his shaking fingers to touch the spot where Castiel's lips had just barely grazed his forehead. He could almost still feel the sensation. He let out a sigh, startling himself. The ex-angels hand on his had been... nice. He didn't know what to make of that. What he did know... well. He didn't even know what he did know. Since his conversation with Sam he had been thinking near-constantly about Castiel, about every single moment that they had ever shared. Dean had realised already that the only time he ever really laughed any more was when he was there, he had been on edge and anxious the whole time Cas had been MIA, and try as he might he couldn't deny the thrill he had felt when Sam had told him that the ex-angel had feelings for him.

His heart thundered in his chest as Sam's words echoed around inside his head, and he gulped.

As he waited for his pulse to return to normal, he tried with everything he had not to think about the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had some unexpected feelings of his own.

* * *

Back inside Bobby's house, Castiel sank onto the worn sofa in the library, wide eyed and mortified at what he had done. He leaned forward, covering his face with his hands, trying to steady his shaky breath. He was certain that he had ruined everything. The fear he had seen in Dean's eyes confirmed it. He would have to leave; there was no way he would be able to handle being around the hunter now. He hadn't thought it would be possible to be more embarrassed than he had been the day before, but here he had gone ahead and proven himself wrong.

Almost half an hour passed before he heard footsteps in the hall. He took a deep breath and lowered his hands in time to see Dean walk in to the library. The hunter stood in the doorway, opening and closing his hands which hung awkwardly at his sides. They stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

After a moment, Dean bit the bullet.

"Remember when Zachariah sent me to 2014?"

Castiel let out the breath he had been holding and nodded, relieved that the topic was anything other than the awkward moment outside. Dean took a couple of steps further into the room, staring at the floor. He glanced back up at Castiel, his eyes involuntarily flicking to his lips. A trace memory tingled over his forehead and he dropped his gaze back to the floor before he spoke.

"Well, you were there. But you were... you were human. And you were broken, Cas. You were drunk. Like, all the time. Hooked on painkillers. Uppers, downers, God knows what else," Dean let out a humorless laugh, "Hell, when I first found you, you were prepping for a freakin orgy."

Castiel raised his eyebrows as Dean continued;

"You were... it wasn't good," he looked back at Castiel, "Anyway, last night, when I saw you taking those pills... I hated seeing you like that because I can't help but think, is this how it starts? Do you get like that because of what's happening now?"

Dean shook his head. Castiel furrowed his brow, remembering what Dean said to him when he had just come back from his time in the future.

"You said, _don't ever change_."

Castiel barely managed to suppress the grimace on his face as he realized that by losing his grace that was exactly what he had done. Dean noticed and walked across the room, settling onto the couch beside him.

"Don't get me wrong, Cas, I like seeing you, you know, expressing emotions and appreciating music and having a beer or two, but... I think about what it could lead to and I just... what if we can't stop it?" he stared around the room, a pained expression clouding his features, "I mean, it's the apocalypse. Are we crazy to even try?"

"Completely."

Dean managed a weak smile in Castiel's direction, but it didn't last. He sighed.

"I saw myself in the future too, Cas. I was so cold I was barely human. I don't want to be that guy," he paused, thinking, "you, Sam, Bobby... you're it for me. You're all I've got. If the future Zach showed me is unavoidable, then Sam is gone, Bobby is gone. I don't think I'll be able to handle it if you're gone, too. If you turn into that guy, that's as good as."

The lump in Castiel's throat was practically permanent these days. He swallowed around it and stared at the floorboards, speaking quietly.

"I've already changed. Maybe it's too late."

"Are you freaking kidding me, Cas?"

"It's true. I'm not going to be the same as I was. You should save yourself the trouble."

Dean let out a sigh. Castiel's sense of self worth was even lower than his.

"You said I was the best friend you ever had. Well, same here. So don't think for one second that I'm giving up on you. I'm going to do everything I can to help you get your groove back, but believe me; even if its gone for good, I'll still want you around."

It took a moment for Castiel to find his voice. He hadn't expected that. Finally, he managed a quiet expression of gratitude, his voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean briefly laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder before pushing himself to his feet, "Just stay... you. Okay?"

Castiel smiled up at him and he felt a tenderness that scared him more than all the hellhounds he had ever encountered. He left the room, afraid of spending any more time alone with the ex-angel. He pushed the memory of their clasped hands as far to the back of his mind as he could.

 _There's an apocalypse to stop_ , he reasoned, _I don't have time to deal with this right now, whatever it is._


	18. And What's A Man Without A Mission?

By the time Dean heard Sam and Bobby pull into the driveway his stomach was growling. He met Sam at the door, and no sooner than his brother had walked through it, Dean grabbed the bag from under his arm and dumped it on the kitchen table, looking through it for something to eat. There was an annoyingly high number of fruits and vegetables, and Dean shoved them around, hoping to uncover something good. The expression on his face slowly turned into a scowl. He looked up at his brother, who was filling a glass at the sink.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"What?"

Sam turned around, sipping his water.

"Where's the food?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the bag.

"What do you call that?"

Dean pulled an orange and a box of granola bars out of the bag and pulled a face.

"Not lunch, that's for damn sure."

Sam smirked, just in time to hear Bobby wheeling down the hallway, closely followed by Castiel. The older hunter spoke to Sam, a smile in his voice.

"Quit torturing your brother," Bobby rustled something and Dean turned to see him holding out one of three fast food bags, " _he_ wanted to bring you a salad."

Dean grabbed the bag, his stomach rumbling as soon as the smell of beef and fried onions hit his nose. He shot his brother a dirty look, and Sam just laughed.

As they sat around the kitchen table, the four men sharing a quiet lunch, Dean could almost believe that the world was safe. Free from the apocalypse. Free from sacrifice. He looked at his smart-ass brother, and hoped they could find an alternative to the plan that was currently looking like the only one out there. Somehow, with everything that had been happening, he had managed to push any thoughts of the plan to the back of his mind. But now it was so close. He felt a pang of dread as he realised that once they had Death's ring, they would have to act fast. And he would have the ring by tomorrow-maybe even tonight if Crowley got back soon. Dean's mouth went dry and he put down his burger, his appetite gone. After a few minutes he turned to Cas, who had finally figured out how to take his time with food, and hoped the ex-angel would try to talk his brother out of it.

"Cas, what do you think of Sam's plan?"

Castiel raised his brow, wiping a smear of ketchup from his lips with his thumb. As he licked it away, Dean glanced down at the surface of the table. The memory of Castiel's lips pressed against his forehead, Castiel's thumb tracing lightly over his, Castiel's breath on his cheek... all came back, and he felt his pulse skip. He swallowed, trying to force down the dreaded feelings that were dangerously close to breaking through, and Sam looked at him with a frown.

"I assume you're referring to him jumping into Lucifer's cage?" Castiel asked, putting his burger down on the table.

Dean nodded, and the ex-angel considered for a moment before speaking.

"Obviously it is not ideal-"

"There's an understatement," Bobby interjected through a mouth .

"-but we don't really have any other options."

Castiel half-smiled toward Bobby in agreement, then cast a sympathetic look toward Sam, who had stopped eating and was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Do you think I have a chance?"

Castiel looked down, his face serious as he chose his words carefully.

"I'm sure I don't need to point out to you that overpowering Lucifer will be unimaginably difficult. My brother is strong; much stronger than anything you've even come close to fighting. He is terrible, but he is charming and once you are his vessel he _will_ try to tempt you. To twist you to his will. If he succeeds, and he might, you will not be able to fight him any more than a moth can fight a flame."

Sam sank back against his chair as Castiel continued.

"He will be expecting a fight from you, and that alone will make him even more dangerous than usual. If it were anyone else I'd say it impossible. But you-both of you," he looked back at Dean, "-keep exceeding my expectations. So yes. I think you have a chance."

Sam exhaled slowly, surprised that he hadn't told him it was a bad idea.

"Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome."

The younger hunter just smiled, grateful beyond words for the confidence that the ex-angel seemed to have in him. Dean, on the other hand, was dejected. He had been hoping that Castiel would voice doubts, tell Sam it would not work, maybe even offer an alternative. But he knew deep down that what Cas said was true. It was their only option. And if he thought there was a shot, then maybe it wasn't completely hopeless. After a moment he picked up his burger, but he couldn't bring himself to finish it. He pushed himself back from his place at the table. He dusted the crumbs from his jeans with a smile, aiming for nonchalance, but when it combined with the pained look of his eyes, his expression landed someplace closer to mania.

"I'd better finish putting baby back together."

"Need a hand?"

"Nah, thanks Bobby."

Castiel watched as Dean walked out, not missing the downcast expression or the dispirited set of his shoulders. He knew that the hunter had been hoping for another solution, but there wasn't one. As much as it pained him to encourage what was, in effect, a suicide mission, Sam really was their only shot.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bobby's cell phone, ringing loud from the library. Sam started to get up.

"Want me to-?"

"I got it."

Bobby wheeled himself out of the room, and Sam sat back down, looking at Castiel with some concern.

"How are you doing, anyway?"

The question caught him unawares, and he opened and closed his mouth without quite knowing what to say. Though he had no doubt that Sam thought of him as a friend, he had assumed that the hunter had more imporant matters to think about. His surprise crinkled his brow as he wondered how he should respond. In the end, he went with the truth.

"Better. I don't know how, but I think I'm getting better."

"Do you think your grace...?" Sam asked hesitantly, obviously wary of bringing it up.

"No," he smiled sadly, "I don't think it ever will."

"Sorry."

Castiel let out a breath and stood up, carrying the wrappers from his burger to the trash can.

"It's okay. I'm okay."

He turned back to face Sam.

"What does an alternator look like?"

"A what?"

"An alternator. Dean said he needs to replace Baby's alternator. I thought I'd look for one in the yard while we are waiting for Crowley."

"You don't need to do that, Cas."

"I want to."

A wide smile-disproportianately wide, Castiel thought-spread over Sams face, tinged with something like knowing. He dug his cell from his pocket and did a quick image search, holding out the phone to show Cas.

"Want me to help you look?"

"No, I'll manage."

"Okay."

Castiel nodded in thanks and made his way outside. No sooner than he had stepped out the door, Sam was calling him and Dean back into the house. Bobby was off the phone.

"It was Rufus," he explained, "it seems Pestilence had a few things in the works before Gabriel blasted him into oblivion. Rufus caught wind of a batch of so-called vaccine that's being shipped first thing tomorrow."

"What's wrong with it?" asked Sam.

"Its active ingredient," Bobby let out a tired, heavy sigh as he looked around at the others, clearly dreading the next word to come out of his mouth; "Croatoan."

* * *

Before long, the three hunters had fallen into a heated argument.

Castiel watched on in silence; the topic of explosives was not one he was well informed on. Rufus' plan, according to Bobby, was to blow the warehouse sky high, and he intended to go help him.

"Are you nuts? You're just gonna get yourself killed."

"I sure as hell don't intend to sit here with my thumb up my ass while Rufus needs my help."

"The place'll be crawling with demons, and last time I checked being in a wheelchair kind of makes you an easy target for things that want to kill you."

"Now you listen to me, boy-"

Dean let out a sigh, and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You owe him."

Sam cleared his throat.

"How about I go too?"

"What?"

"Well think about it-should I really be coming to Chicago? Any time I'm around one of the horsemen, I'm putting myself right where Lucifer wants me. I should stay as far away as possible until its time to-"

"Fine," Dean cut him off, not wanting to be reminded yet again of his brothers looming fate, "you two go get your pyro on, Cas and I will be in Chicago blasting Death to kingdom come. Somehow."

"You want me to come to Chicago?"

Castiel stared at Dean as if he were crazy, and Dean shrugged.

"I'll need your help."

"I'm not as strong as I was, Dean. I don't know if I'll be any help."

"Listen; you might not be Super Cas anymore, but I saw you in Iowa. Mojo or not, you're still bad ass."

Castiel felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, and he nodded, a timid smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay. I'll do what I can."

"Good."

Sam smiled, impressed with how his brother was handling the information he had given him earlier that day. He had been worried that Dean would be uncomfortable; an emotion that usually made him snarky and mean, but instead he seemed... nicer. It was unexpected.

"Alright, that's settled then. Guess we'd better get started," the older hunter said, wheeling himself out into the hallway, "time to go build us some bombs."

* * *

For most of the afternoon, Castiel had helped the hunters with the explosives. He measured lengths of wire, cut where he was told, and looked with interest at the little bundles that seemed too neatly constructed to be capable of so much destruction.

Now, in the fading light of dusk, he carried a heavy bag of guns to the van that Sam and Bobby had loaded full of their home made bombs. The three hunters were by the van, and he made his way past them to shove the bag into a gap behind the drivers seat, listening to their conversation.

"Yeah, just be careful, okay?"

"We'll be fine. You're the ones facing down Death himself, I'd put the worry where it's needed."

"Jeez, thanks for the vote of confidence, Bobby."

"Call it where I see it."

As he reached down to move another bag out of his way, Castiel snagged his hand on a loose length of wire, and it cut into his palm. He hissed through his teeth and pulled his hand back to see blood running freely from the cut, dripping onto the dirt at his feet. Hearing the noise, Sam turned to see what was wrong.

"Cas?"

"I cut myself."

Sam stepped closer to look, and Castiel inhaled sharply at the stinging sensation that coursed through his palm as pressed his other hand down over the cut. Dean walked up behind his brother; both of them now giving what the ex-angel considered undue attention to a minor injury.

"It's fine."

"Looks pretty shallow, but you'll want to put something on it."

"Right. Well," Castiel looked down at Bobby in his chair, then back up at Sam, "good luck with the explosion."

"Thanks, Cas."

Walking past them back to the house, a trail of red drops behind him, Castiel wondered how how on Earth he was going to help Dean fight Death when he couldn't even load a van without injuring himself.

He shook it off as he walked through the door.

It didn't matter if he thought he was too weak; Dean believed in him.

That was enough.

* * *

The sun was all but gone, a faint glow on the horizon flickering between trees as Dean opened the passenger door. Sam leaned down to lift Bobby into the van when a curt voice sounded from the shadows behind them.

"Awfully lazy of you, darling."

The three men turned to see Crowley stepping from the shadows, a mischevious glint in his eyes. Bobby glared at him.

"What?"

Crowley shrugged to himself, looking absently at his fingernails.

"Making the moose carry you around."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but my legs ain't exactly in workin' order."

The demon rolled his eyes.

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Really wasted that crossroads deal."

* * *

Inside, Castiel stood in the bathroom, wrapping a bandage tightly around his palm. He felt the steady pulse of his heart echoing in his fist, and raised it to his ear to learn it was merely sensation, not sound.

In the mirror he noticed a layer of grime that coated his face; dust kicked up in the scrap yard that clung to his damp skin in dark streaks. He paused to wash his face clean, then made his way back downstairs and into the yard in time to see the van leaving. Bobby's arm stuck out the passenger window and waved as Sam honked the horn, and he raised his bandaged hand to wave in return. Glancing away from the van, Castiel noticed Crowley standing with his back to the house between him and Dean. He picked up his pace. The unctous demon made him uneasy.

He was almost in line with Crowley before he noticed the wheelchair, sitting empty on the ground nearby. He stopped in his tracks, staring at it. After a moment, he looked up at Dean, confused. The hunter was looking back at him, and was positively beaming.

"Looks like his deal wasn't all bad afterall."

Understanding dawned on him, and Castiel grinned, thrilled by the good news. Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to look at him. A smirk flickered over his features, and he let out a cruel laugh as he looked Castiel up and down.

"So the rumours are true. You're all... plucked."

Crowley chuckled, relishing the look of impotent rage on Castiels face, then quite suddeny his expression changed to one of confusion. He stepped forward, squinting at the ex-angel.

"But there's something... else. What _is_ -"

Dean tensed up, speaking to bring Crowley's attention back to him.

"So do you have the weapon, or what?"

Crowley looked back at Dean, though he was still visibly distracted by Castiel. His eyes kept flicking back to him as he pulled a curved blade from under his jacket. Dean leaned his head forward to get a better look at the rusted weapon.

"The hell is that?"

Crowley tossed it from hand to hand, finally passing it to the hunter.

"A sickle," he raised his eyebrows, "Death's own."

The hunter eyed it warily as he tested its weight.

"How'd you get it?"

Crowley winked.

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

Dean snorted and wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving a trail of orange on the denim. He looked up at Crowley, doubtful.

"How am I supposed to do anything with this thing? It's rusted to shit."

"It'll work."

"I couldn't cut butter with this thing."

"What part of 'it'll work' don't you understand?"

Dean frowned, still not quite buying it.

"You sure?"

"Nah, I'm just guessing. I love the idea of pissing of a Horseman. I'm suicidal and creative."

Deab rolled his eyes at the demon, who tapped his foot impatiently.

"Well? Long drive. Shall we?"

Dean grunted in assent and they started walking toward the Impala, Castiel following closely. Crowley looked over his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going, wingless?"

Dean stopped to look at Crowley, confused. Castiel narrowed his eyes.

"With Dean."

The words, _you idiot_ , were implied. Crowley scoffed.

"Not a good idea."

Dean took a step back toward the demon.

"What, so not only am I supposed to kill Death with a blunt scythe-"

"Sickle."

"-whatever. But I'm meant to do it with no backup?"

"I'll be there."

" _You're_ going to back me up?"

"Well... no. But he still can't come," Crowley eyed Castiel, "not in his state."

Castiel prickled, the implication that he was in any way unfit to help when Dean had already told him otherwise irked him. He raised his chin in defiance.

"I may not have my grace but I'm still... bad ass."

Dean smirked to himself; he got a strange enjoyment from hearing Castiel clumsily use even the most tame of cuss words, and the added knowledge that the ex-angel was repeating his words just made it better. But Crowley just shook his head.

"Not really the issue. Whatever it is that you've got lingering around you, it's... different. Dean needs to keep a low profile until he's right there and he can't exactly do that if Death senses your... aura?"

Crowley stared at him with intense focus, as if trying to make something reveal itself.

"What _is_ it?"

Castiel looked down at himself, he raised his hands and inspected them, but he couldn't see anything.

"I don't know," he glanced at Dean, "Do you see it?"

Dean shook his head. He looked hard at Castiel, but nothing stood out as unusual. He thought for a minute and then, with a look that said he wasn't happy with his decision, let out a sigh.

"I guess I'm going solo."

"Dean-"

"We can't risk it, Cas," he paused, seeing the concern on the ex-angels face, "Don't worry. I'll be fine. You just hold down the fort, okay?"

After a moment, Castiel nodded, a crinkle in his brow.

"Okay."

Turning to Crowley, Dean raised the sickle in his hand and pointed it threateningly at the demon.

"If you are in any way trying to screw me over, I _will_ kill you."

"Wonderful. Can we go now?"

Dean took one last worried look at Castiel before making his way to the Impala. The sight of Crowley sitting in the passenger seat turned his stomach. Castiel watched them go, an uneasy weight settling in his stomach. As the tail lights faded, he let out a heavy breath and turned his face to the wide star-strewn sky.

"You may have forsaken _me_ , Father, but please... please keep him safe."


	19. The Wall

With the night, a heavy silence had descended over everything. He felt suffocated by it. His every footstep echoed through the house, and Castiel was uneasy. The thought of being stuck here, alone, while the closest people he had to a family any more were all out risking their lives... it put a nervous weight in his heart.

After pacing through the old house for near half an hour, he went back out into the cool night and tried to enjoy the sound of gravel crunching beneath his feet. A misty rain began to fall, and it caught in his hair and clung to his borrowed sweater, its almost-sweet smell mixing with the dust of the scrapyard. He breathed deep.

 _Petrichor,_ he thought with a smile.

He had always been fascinated by the way humans felt the need to name and classify such abstract parts of existence, and took a simple pleasure from the moments that allowed him to understand them. This, he decided, was one of his favorites.

By eight o'clock, he had walked five laps of Singer Auto, and the rain had intensified, shifted to become big, fat drops that ran like icy fingers down his neck. A roll of thunder brought with it a heavy downpour, and before he knew it he was soaked through. He headed back into the house, shivering cold, to take a shower.

It wasn't until he was standing in the steady stream of hot water, face pink and warm in the steam, that he realized he had no dry clothes to put on. After a second, he remembered the pile on the floor of the spare room; Dean's jeans and shirt from the day before, carelessly thrown in the corner.

His mind wandered as he showered; first thinking of the olive-green shirt, then of the color reflected in the hunter's eyes. Of the hunter's eyes looking at him. Of the hunter's mouth turned up in a smile. Of his lips. Of his breath ghosting over his neck as he pressed a kiss to his forehead beneath the Impala. Castiel felt a spreading warmth low in his belly, and he ran his fingers over the smooth skin at the hollow of his hipbone, sucking in a breath at the unexpected wave of sensation that rolled through him. He closed his eyes, and moved the fingers again, more lightly this time, imagining that it was not his hand but Dean's. An ache, but a pleasant one, was growing at his core, and he moved his hand lower still, gasping when it came into contact with sensitive skin. He pulled his hand back. It was good-but it was too much. Overwhelming. He felt his heart stuttering like a poorly tuned radio in his chest. Radio, radio, radio... music. The sound of a songs climax as he had laid under the Impala with Dean came back to him in a rush, and in his mind he was there. Laying in the dirt, the hunter's hand in his, breath tickling over his face, leaning in. But here, the memory twisted and changed, and he thought of the kiss landing lower, their lips joining, pressing hard together, his hand tangled in Dean's hair, pulling him as close as he could. He felt a shudder of desperate need roll through him and threw caution to the wind, taking himself fully into one hand. He bit down hard on his lip as he recalled a memory of the hunter doing this, _just like this_ in the shower, as he had seen one one ill-timed visit. He let out an involuntary moan.

He opened his eyes and glanced down. His breath came ragged and fast as he saw his his hand stroking quickly back and forth, and with a righteous mans name on his lips, he felt himself come undone.

* * *

He dressed in the dark of the spare room, a giddy, slightly ridiculous grin on his face that he couldn't seem to shake. He felt calm, content. The shirt smelled of Dean, and his smile widened as he made his way down the stairs on jelly-legs, suddenly ravenous. He set about finding some food.

The fridge, which had been stocked with all manner of fruits and vegetables by Sam, offered nothing that he had eaten before-but there was bread on the counter and he figured that a sandwich shouldn't be difficult to prepare. After some deliberation, he took a green apple, and a block of cheese from the fridge and started slicing.

The bread was soft, the apple tart and crisp. Flavors melded together. He chewed thoughtfully, and deciding that he was onto a good combination, made another.

For some time after he had finished eating he sat in the kitchen, his hands resting on the cool surface of the table, and tried to simply wait for time to pass as he used to do so often. Now, though, it proved to be near impossible. His mind wandered of its own accord, and with the afterglow of his earlier indulgence fading, his thoughts kept wandering into unpleasant territory. He was restless, and worse-bored. Worries he had been pushing away since the others had left came flooding back, and without any way to help them he found himself in a state of simultaneous agitation and ennui. He hadn't been bored before-as far back as he could remember, which was as far back as there was, there had always been something with which to occupy his mind-and the twitchy feeling that started in his tapping fingers and spread through him like wildfire eventually sent him searching through the house for a new outlet.

Beneath a mountain of books in the library, he uncovered a box of records. He shuffled through them, reading the names; _Neil Young, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bruce Springsteen._ After a couple of minutes he had gathered a neat little stack of them and set about locating Bobby's turntable. Eventually he found it, gathering dust in a corner of the room where it had, like most every surface in the cluttered house, been acting as a makeshift bookshelf. He slipped a record- _The Rolling Stones, Let It Bleed_ , it's cover announced-from its sleeve and lowered it onto the turntable before looking for the right button to make it play. He was leaning close, inspecting the various symbols, when a sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

"It's the one with the triangle."

Seemingly of it's own accord, the button on the record player sank inwards and the pin lowered onto the vinyl with a scratch. Castiel turned around with a start to find his brother, chewing on a length of cherry licorice and riffling through the records he had left sitting on the coffee table. Gabriel picked one up and turned it over in his hands, reading the cover with what looked like a nostalgic grin.

"Oh, this is a good one."

The record crackled, and after a few seconds a song started to play. Castiel, who was yet to move, was staring at his brother, livid.

" _Gabriel_."

The archangel, his attention pulled from the slip cover in his hands by the harshness of Castiel's tone, looked up at his brother, facing him for the first time since his arrival. Immediately a frown flickered over his features.

"Cas, what is that-?"

"Why did you tell Dean that I was attracted to Sam?" Castiel cut him off, his tone harsh, "Don't you think we have enough to deal with right now without you here meddling?"

"Cas-"

"What was the point? You made me look like a fool, Gabriel."

Gabriel was not listening; his expression was tense and concerned as he stepped close to his brother, raising a hand toward the center of Castiel's chest.

"Castiel," he met his brothers eyes, "what _is_ that?"

Castiel felt a pit in his stomach. Gabriel's words were an echo of Crowley's, and that did not bode well. He swallowed hard and replied quietly.

"You see it, too?"

Gabriel nodded, still staring, and Castiel walked past him to the window to look at his reflection. He inspected the body there, looked at the face staring back at him from the glass, but still saw nothing unusual-just a slightly scruffier version of Jimmy Novak in a borrowed shirt.

"The demon Crowley was here earlier... he said something was lingering around me," he glanced back at Gabriel, "but I can't see it. Neither could Dean."

"You have... it's almost like..." he shook his head, as if what he was looking at didn't make sense, "I've never seen anything like it."

Gabriel stared intently at the center of Castiel's chest. Suddenly something occurred to the younger angel, and with wide eyes he asked his brother;

"Is it something to do with the void?"

The archangel looked at him with confusion.

"The what?"

"The void... the space where my grace used to be."

Understanding dawned on Gabriels face, and he looked at his brother with pity.

"No, it's not that... but I think it might be connected," Gabriel let out a breath and frowned at his brother, "I'll ask around."

Before Cas could ask what he meant, Gabriel was gone.

* * *

With nothing else to do but wait, he spent the rest of the night on the couch, listening to Bobby's records and reading a book on Enochian magic. The book seemed to be around twenty percent accurate and eighty percent poetic license.

Figuring he should do something to thank Bobby for his help in bringing him home- _home!_ The word popped into his head without announcement, and he grinned-he made a series of corrections in the margins with a black marker.

Finally, around two in the morning, his eyes closed of their own accord, and he slept without interruption for nine hours.

* * *

Castiel wiped away the sweat which had beaded on his brow, his oil-stained hand leaving a dark line from eye to temple. Bobby's scrap yard was huge-it's perimeters spreading outward far further than he had noticed in the dark-and after three hours of digging through the bodies of unwanted cars in varying states of decay, he was just barely halfway through. The search was good. Distracting. Thoughts of the worried look on Gabriel's face, thoughts of Dean fighting Death, thoughts of Sam and Bobby planting explosives still ran through his mind constantly, but with the task at hand he could almost drown them out. He had pulled the library window open and had been playing record after record at full volume. The music carried out through the yard and he found himself humming along, guessing the direction that the songs would take, learning the patterns in the sound. Listening to music was less passive than he had once thought, and the activity was yet another way to make time pass faster.

As the day had stretched on, he had gathered a few alternators. It turned out that they came in many sizes, and he wasn't sure if any of them would fit, or even work-but he hoped at least one would be okay.

Now, the sun was sinking out of view. He was about to give up on his hunt when he finally heard the low rumble of the Impala pulling into the driveway. He felt a surge of relief as the car came into view.

Dean slowed as he passed, leaning out the open window to wave at him.

"Hey, Cas."

Castiel smiled, and it was wide and genuine; nothing like the strained smile he'd had only three days ago. Dean returned it with a grin of his own, and drove right up to the house, coming to a stop in his usual spot.

 _He did it_ , thought Castiel, and leaned down to pick up the parts he had gathered.

* * *

As Dean climbed from the car and slammed the door, he noticed the music blaring from the house and nodded in appreciation. Cas sure had developed a decent taste in music.

Walking back toward Castiel, who was trying to pick up what looked like five or six metal cylinders at the same time, he heard something move to his right. He tensed immediately, his hand coming to rest on the knife in his jeans pocket as he scanned the shadows-but there was nothing. Just a patch of dry grass sticking up from beneath the flat tires of a half-corroded gray pickup, swaying in the breeze. He lowered his hand and started forward.

His foot hadn't even hit the ground before a small, but decidedly strong, woman launched herself onto him from between two cars. Dean grunted as he tried to shove her away, but she wrapped her hands around his wrist, her grip vicelike as her eyes flicked to black.

"I heard," she said sweetly, squeezing tight as she looked him over, "that you have a ring for me."

Castiel hearing the commotion, looked up. He dropped the parts he was carrying and broke into a sprint as Dean replied, reaching for his knife with his free hand.

"Slow down, honey, we just met."

The demon smirked, and Castiel, finally reaching them, grabbed hold of her hair and dragged her back.

"Get OFF him!" he growled.

The demon staggered briefly, then her regained balance and threw one elbow back, hitting Castiel square in the solar plexus. She was disproportionately strong, and he was thrown back against the pickup, the wind knocked out of him. His head clunked hard against the rusty metal. He gasped for breath, his lungs stinging and screaming for air. A half second later, she was on top of him, gripping him by the throat as she pushed him to the ground, her black eyes reflecting red in the setting sun.

She looked at Castiel as if he were a misbehaving child.

"You're getting in my way."

Her hand came down hard, a closed fist striking him in the mouth, the glittering stone on her ring finger digging into his lower lip. Castiel felt his eyes bulge as he desperately fought to breathe, but the demon pinned him down, putting all her weight onto his neck.

From somewhere behind her, Castiel heard Dean say something, but the words were lost. Suddenly the demons eyes were wide, her mouth forming a surprised little o as black smoke oozed from her lips. The body above him was empty, limp. She sagged down on top of him before she was shoved roughly onto the stony ground at his side. Castiel coughed, sucking in cold air that burned his thoat, and blinked against the spots in his eyes.

Dean came into focus, kneeling down beside him and pulling him up to sit against the side of the car, his hands firm but gentle on Castiel's shoulders. The hunter looked with concern at his eyes, hazy and out of focus and moved one hand to the ex-angels jaw, forcing him to look up.

"Are you okay?"

Castiel took a deep breath and blinked, bringing his hands up to clutch at Dean's arms. He blinked and took a deep breath, nodding his head slightly.

"I'm fine."

Dean looked at him warily, not missing the raspy, short of breath way that Castiel answered. Castiel swallowed hard and stared at him. Their faces were close, even by his standards, but Dean made no move to back away.

"What were you doing out here?"

"I was looking for the part."

"The part?"

"The part you're missing. The alt-" he caught his breath, "the alternator."

"Oh," Dean smiled with gratitude, "you didn't have to do that, Cas."

Castiel could feel the hunters breath against his cheek, and his heart hammered in his chest as he remembered his thoughts from the shower. He felt his face burning hot and hoped that it was too dark to see.

"I know."

After a moment Dean pulled him to his feet and looked around as if trying to think of something to say. His gaze fell on Castiel's face.

"You're bleeding."

Castiel reached up to the back of his head where it had collided with the car, but his hand came away dry.

"No, here."

Unthinkingly, Dean dragged his knuckles over the corner of Castiels mouth, wiping his lips clean of blood. It was too much like his fantasy, and involuntarily, Castiel's eyes fluttered closed, his lips parted and a sigh escaped.

Within a split second, Dean's hand disappeared.

Castiel was screaming inwardly. He pressed his eyes shut, humiliated. He heard Dean walking away. After a few seconds the hunter called out, a strange catch in his voice.

"Come on, better get that patched up or it'll scar."

Castiel forced his eyes open to stare after him, still mortified. His tongue flicked out over the side of his mouth where Dean's fingers had been a moment ago and he tried not to think about it. Instead he looked up to the sky, eyes prickling. His feet didn't seem to want to move. The crunch of Dean's footsteps on gravel stopped.

"Cas?"

Castiel couldn't bring himself to look at him. He stared up at the darknening sky.

"Leave me a minute."

Dean took a half step away and then stopped again. He turned back, his face strained and asked quietly;

"Cas, why were you watching Sam the other day?"

Castiel could feel his heart thundering. His eyes grew wide, terrified. _He knows_ , he thought, _I've ruined it_. Somehow he found his voice, but it was quiet, more timid than he thought himself capable of.

"I wanted to see if it was the same."

Dean took a step back toward him, his head leaned forward in question.

"If what was the same? The same as what?"

Castiel took a deep breath. _It's now or never_ , he thought. His stomach flipped wildly, and he wanted desperately to turn and run but his feet wouldn't let him. He heard the words coming from his mouth in a mad rush before he could stop them.

"If seeing Sam unclothed made me feel the same way I felt when I saw you."

"Oh," Dean exhaled, a muddled look of fear and something else, something unknown on his face as he paused.

A few seconds went by in silence before Dean gulped and took another step toward the ex-angel, who was frozen in place. When the hunter spoke his voice was barely audible.

"Did it?"

This was not the reaction he had been expecting. Castiel's voice caught in his throat and his head was spinning. He finally allowed himself to make eye contact with the hunter and shook his head, an infinitesimal movement. It was barely visible, but Dean saw.

"Oh."

Castiel felt as though his heart might explode if it beat any harder. He stared at the hunter, waiting for something, _anything_. Dean just stared back, a hard stare like a man going into battle.

Time stretched on forever as they stood trapped in the moment until finally something fell away. A wall inside him came crashing down, and Dean was moving forward.

A split second later, the wall might as well have never been there to begin with.


	20. The Part That's Missing

Dean's eyes were wide and searching, bright even in the dim light of dusk. He stopped before Castiel, and there was an aching moment when they were close but not touching that seemed to last a lifetime. It was falling in slow motion, flight without wings. Even the air was humming; a plucked string that rang out and waited for an answering chord that took too long to come.

They had touched before, of course. But there had always been a reason, something beyond sensation. A hand to help the other stand. A comforting grip on the shoulder.

This was different.

This was more.

Dean's eyes flickered down to Castiel's lips as he moved closer still, and finally, _finally_ , brought up one hand to run over the ex-angels jawline before weaving it into his hair, pulling him in. Their noses bumped together and Castiel breathed deep; a warm and familiar scent of motor oil, salt and sweat. A smell that was Dean all over.

" _Dean_ ," he breathed, moving his fingers to the hunters collarbone, thumb dipping into the hollow to find his pulse racing, wanting to say more but not knowing how.

At his touch, Dean's breath hitched and his eyes closed; he seemed to be concentrating on something, and briefly Castiel wondered if he should close his eyes, too. But this close he could almost count the freckles on the hunters cheeks, and he wanted-no, _needed_ -to remember this.

Every last detail.

Castiel felt the bob of Dean's throat beneath his fingertips as he swallowed. He saw a flicker of pink as Dean's tongue darted out over his dry lips, and bit his own lip in response. He tilted his chin up, suddenly desperate to close what little space was left between them, but Dean sensed him and pulled back with a pained sigh.

"Cas, I want..." his voice wavered, eyes still closed with his fingers moving in Castiel's hair despite his hesitance, "I don't know if-"

A loud riff cut through the moment and Dean jerked away, startled and furtive as if he had been caught out before he realized where the sound was coming from. He dug his phone from his jeans pocket, and with shaking fingers he answered the call.

"Sam? What's wrong?" he turned away from Castiel, stepping toward the house as his brother replied.

Castiel stared after him, cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide with want. He could still feel the ghost of Dean's fingers in his hair, and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that it had actually happened. A smile settled on his face, and he willed the phone call to be over, willed Dean to tell Sam he was busy, to throw his cell in through the open window of the Impala and come back to him. He ran his own hand over the back of his neck in an echo of Deans touch and exhaled, finally tuning in to the conversation.

"No, no that's fine."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, pressing his eyes shut. There was a visible strain in the way he held his shoulders that Castiel hadn't seen since Serenity Valley. The ex-angel narrowed his eyes, trying to place the cause of Dean's tension.

"Yeah, starving," he paused, "whatever looks good. Okay. See you soon."

Lowering the phone from his ear, Dean looked back at Castiel. His face was still flushed, and the hunter let out a heavy breath. A part of Dean-most of him, really-wanted to go back to the seconds before the phone call, but in the moments that had passed his fear had been hard at work, rebuilding the wall of self-denial in his chest, and that part was all but silenced.

"Cas, I..." he gritted his teeth, trying to pull his thoughts together and simultaneously wanting to ignore every last one of them.

Castiel was staring at him, waiting. A cool wind ran through the scrapyard, throwing leaves into the air, and as Dean looked on, a slow-dawning realization came over Castiel's face. His expression shifted into that blank, distant stare that he had worn so often before he had fallen, and Dean felt a pit in his stomach. He knew what that look meant, knew that he was responsible for it. Before he could continue, Castiel spoke.

"You regret touching me that way."

His voice was matter-of-fact, deliberately detached, and Dean felt the words like a blow to the chest because he _didn't_ regret it. He wanted it. He still wanted it. He wanted _more_ -but this wasn't about what he wanted. If he let himself cross that line, let Castiel get that close, he was opening both of them up to a world of pain. Beyond that, he was horribly aware of the fact that Castiel was not human, not really; even without his grace he was still _other_. Forming a friendship with an angel was one thing, but this... he had never been above blasphemy, but this seemed like the worst kind.

 _It didn't matter with Anna_ , his subconscious rationalized, and his fear countered; _but look what happened to her._

His throat felt dry and tight, and when he opened his mouth to speak nothing came. Castiel watched him for a moment, nodded, and walked purposefully past him toward the house, his jaw set in a hard line.

"Cas, wait, I-"

"Don't worry, Dean. I understand. It was a mistake," Castiel paused to take a breath with one hand on the door, but he didn't turn, "It's forgotten."

The door squeaked on it's hinges as he pushed through it, leaving Dean alone in the scrapyard.

After a moment, the music which had been flowing from the open window was cut short with a scratch.

The silence that fell was heavy and oppressive, and Dean cursed under his breath.

"Shit."

* * *

Once he had passed into the dark hallway, Castiel's mask slipped away. The stoic expression had been for Dean's benefit, a lie designed to alleviate the hunters guilt, and now that he was alone his whole body slumped forward with the weight of his humiliation, his pain.

Castiel didn't know why he bothered to hide it, though really, if he thought about it, he did. It was just what you did for people you loved. You put them first, always.

Castiel focused on his breath, tried not to think about how close they had been, how they had almost-

 _No_ , he thought, _it was a mistake._

The look on Dean's face when he had turned back to face him had told him that without a shred of doubt, and yet he was painfully aware that it was the hunter who had made the first move. The feeling of Dean's fingertips trailing over his cheek was something he never thought he would experience, and now, he supposed, he never would again. Bitter tears threatened to fall, and he blinked them away with stinging eyes.

Whatever happened now, something had changed between them in that one small act, and Castiel knew there was no going back. There was no use crying over it. It was done.

The song blaring from the stereo in the library was too fitting; the lyrics cut deep and weakened his resolve. Swiftly, he moved through the darkened room and yanked the needle back. With the music gone he could hear the crunch of gravel outside, and he moved to the window. He leaned close, his breath fogging the glass in a semicircle.

Outside he could see Dean, walking slowly out into the dark with one hand kneading the tense muscles at the back of his neck. He watched as the hunter leaned down to pick up the body of the demon who had attacked them, hoisting her over his shoulder with the kind of ease that only comes with practice, and felt his heart ache.

Dean disappeared into the shadows of the yard, and Castiel leaned his forehead against the window, waiting, keeping watch. After a few minutes, he saw the faint glow of fire seeping out from behind a rusted shed and pushed himself back, making his way up to the bathroom to tend to his cut lip.

In the bright glare of the overhead light, Castiel inspected his face. It wasn't nearly as bad as it had seemed outside; barely a scratch, though a dark bruise was forming from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He leaned down to the sink, splashing cool water over his face. Standing back up to look in the mirror, he saw a figure behind him and spun around in panic.

"A little jumpy there, Cas."

Gabriel dug around in his pocket and pulled out a bag of skittles. He threw a handful into his mouth as he looked around the room.

"Why are you here, Gabriel?"

"Oh, you know. I missed you."

Castiel huffed, and his brother grinned, shoving the bag back into his pocket.

"That and I have some news. You might like it," Gabriel sat down on the edge of the tub, chewing thoughtfully, "but then again, you might not. Really depends on your plans, I guess."

Castiel leaned back against the sink with a weary sigh and ran a hand across his face.

"I'm in no mood for your games right now Gabriel."

At this, Gabriel sat up straighter, looking at his brother with a frown.

"What happened?"

Castiel just shook his head.

"It's nothing. Just tell me why you're here."

Gabriel looked intently at Castiel, too distracted by his red-rimmed eyes and cut lip to just let it go.

"What happened?"

The ex-angel closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath, not wanting to relive the awful moment so soon, but recognising the tone in his brothers voice he knew he wouldn't stop asking until he replied. He stared at his hands as he spoke.

"I told Dean that I," he paused, his adams apple twitching in his throat, "and he... we-"

"Wait," Gabriel perked up, "You _told_ him?"

For a split second, the archangel looked as thrilled as a thirteen year old girl gossiping with her best friend, and then his eyes darted to the bruise on Castiel chin. The delight on his face quickly faded, and he narrowed his eyes, his voice darkening.

"You told him and he _hit_ you?"

"What? No. No, this was from a demon. He saved me, and then I told him. And he... I mean, we almost-" Castiel chewed on the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, "but it was a mistake."

Finally, he met his brothers eyes and saw a confusing mix of pity and skepticism on his face. He shrugged, trying to pass the rejection off as no big deal.

"He doesn't want us to be like that."

Gabriel let out a groan and pushed himself up from his place on the edge of the bath.

"Are you kidding me, Castiel?"

The younger angel frowned, tilting his head in question, and Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"You two have been dancing around each other for the better part of two years, it's amazing to me that you can be so damn blind."

Gabriel grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and fixed him with a hard stare.

"He is an idiot and I don't know what you see in him, but believe me when I tell you that every single thing you feel for him is reciprocated."

"But-"

"Every. Single. Thing." Gabriel shook his head, laughing, "you asked me yesterday why I told him you were into Sam? I told him that because I thought it would make him jealous enough to realize and do something about it."

Castiel's heart was in his throat as he stared at his brother in disbelief.

"How could you possibly know that?"

At this, Gabriel's mouth twitched into a playful smirk and he shrugged, dropping his hands from his brother's shoulders.

"I may have been in touch with an old friend of yours," his nose crinkled on the word friend, and he continued, "a cupid. You both met him recently, and-"

"A cupid is responsible for this?"

"No. But he did pick up on what was already there. And it wasn't just on your side."

Castiel considered this, staring hard at the tile. Of course he realised that there must have been some scrap of reciprocation there at some point; Dean had approached him, after all. He had initiated the contact, but he had also pulled away and levelled him with a look that said this was a mistake. A look that said, plain as day, that he didn't want to continue. That he didn't want Castiel.

After a moment, Castiel tensed his jaw and looked back at his brother.

"It is no matter. He has obviously changed his mind. Tell me why you are here."

Gabriel frowned at him, his disagreement with Castiel's conclusion clear, but he let it slide. For now. He clicked his teeth.

"It's about _that_ ," he pointed at the center of Castiel's chest, "You might want to sit down, Cas. This is... unprecedented."

* * *

The sun was long gone, and the only light came from the smouldering remains of the salted-and-burned demon's meat-suit and the half-covered moon, which threw dark shadows and blue-white reflections across the rusted shells of countless cars.

Dean was sitting in the dirt behind Bobby's tool shed, staring into the red embers and wringing his hands. His mind was racing, thoughts endlessly returning to the image of sky-blue eyes made near black by lust-blown pupils. The feel of Castiel's cool skin, soft beneath scratchy stubble and the barely-there smell of ozone that hovered around him like an aura. The way he had tilted his chin up in the pale orange light of dusk, his mouth eagerly seeking Deans-the memories crowded in his mind, leaving him restless with a kind of desire he hadn't felt in a long time.

Ever, really.

Because for once, it wasn't just a physical lust, and this wasn't just some random guy who gave him bedroom eyes in a bar. If that were all it were he would just get it out of his system and move on; hell, he'd been doing that for years. He'd had his share of experiences with men, but he'd never really cared about any of them. They filled a need, and they were gone, and if he'd thought of any of them twice afterwards it was never with sentiment. The only time he'd felt something remotely similar was with Lisa Braeden, and maybe with Cassie Robinson back in Missouri, but even with them it was mainly superficial.

But this was more, this was physical and emotional and _more_ , and it terrified him.

Every instinct he had told him to go into the house, to grab hold of Castiel and make him understand, to close that distance that he had so ached to close before he had panicked and run like a scared kid, but try as he might he couldn't seem to stop the rational soldier in him from pointing out the many downsides of opening yourself up to another person, no matter who it was.

A war was raging inside him, and after a while he couldn't sit still. He got to his feet and walked out to the road and back, willing the crisp night air to clear his mind.

Dean was still pacing in the yard, putting off going inside, when the yellow glow of headlights lit up the driveway. He mustered a tight smile and a wave to return Bobby's, and turning to follow the van back to the house, he stumbled over a pile of car parts that had been left on the ground.

A lump formed in his throat when he realized what they were, and he remembered Castiel's words.

_I was looking for the part you're missing._

Removing the alternators was by no means easy work for someone who didn't know cars, and yet here there were half a dozen of them, carefully extracted from their original engines. Castiel was still trying to help him, despite everything. He knew that-more than once-he had treated the ex-angel badly, he had been needlessly cruel, condescending, demanding... and yet through everything he always came through for Dean. Every damn time.

"You coming, Dean?"

Dean looked up to find his brother standing halfway up the stairs, a bag of Chinese takeout in his hand.

"Yeah," he just barely nodded, "Yeah, I'll be in in a sec."

Sam looked out at him for a moment, frowned, and made his way inside as Dean leaned down with a sigh to pick up an alternator, his fingers sliding on the grease. His jaw tensed, regret like a lead weight in his gut as he turned it over in his hands and pictured the barely-veiled hurt on Castiel's face when he had pulled away. The memory solidified in his mind, and he knew then that he should have stopped him. Should have pulled him back instead of letting him go, letting him think that it was a mistake. Ultimately, he knew that what he was afraid of was losing the ex-angel; getting too close, letting him in and opening himself up to heartache.

 _Better to hurt one of us now than both of us later_.

The thought stopped him short, and he felt sick. All at once his reasons for running seemed completely selfish, and utterly irrational.

 _I'm missing a part, alright_ _,_ he thought _,_ _I'm fucking heartless._


	21. An Unexpected Answer

The steady drip of water did nothing to calm his nerves, and Castiel reached into the sink to twist the faucet, glancing back at his brother with an air of irritation. Whatever it was that Gabriel had come to tell him, he just wanted it to be over with already. Whether he was sitting down or not had absolutely no bearing on the matter, and he turned back to face the archangel with his arms crossed.

"I'd rather stand. Just tell me what it is."

Gabriel clicked his teeth as he tried to work out where to start. He figured the beginning was as good a place as any, and with a sigh, he began.

"When you fell, it wasn't an accident. It was because you wanted it."

"I didn't-"

Castiel's expression was icy and defensive, and Gabriel held up his palms in a pacifying gesture as he continued.

"You can't fall without a reason, Cas. You know that. And I think we both know what your reason was."

"I..."

The words died in Castiel's mouth as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

"The mark you left on him wasn't exactly subtle."

Castiel felt his face burn red, and he cast his eyes down as he tried to shrug it off as nothing.

"The mark was an accident. I didn't even know-"

"Whether you knew or not is beside the point. The point, brother, is that this-you falling-it started from the second you pulled him out."

Thoughts of the moment he had taken hold of Dean in Hell flashed in Castiel's memory, and he tensed his jaw, not wanting to recall the fear, the rage on his friends face in that writhing, endless pit.

Gabriel looked at him meaningfully as he continued.

"He was the reason you fell, but he's also the reason you are _not_ a fallen angel."

This caught Castiel unaware, and he narrowed his eyes at his brother in confusion.

"You're not making any sense."

Downstairs, the door creaked open and footsteps echoed through the house. Castiel jerked his head toward the bathroom door, and Gabriel listened for a moment then waved a hand as if to say, _it's no one to worry about,_ before he continued, pulling his brothers focus back to him.

"You don't have your grace any more, but you are not empty."

The smell of honey chicken and spicy rice carried up the stairs, along with the voices of Sam and Bobby-muffled but familiar-as Gabriel went on.

"What I can see, what Crowley saw... I didn't recognise it at first because it was so... _new_. And to be honest, I didn't think it was even possible until I spoke with Joshua."

Castiel stood up straighter.

"Joshua? You went to the Garden?"

With a nod, Gabriel settled on the edge of the bath and watched his brother. A million thoughts rushed through Castiel's mind at once, every last one of them centring around the fact that Joshua had been the one to enlighten Gabriel on what was happening to him, and knowing that whatever Joshua knew he knew because his father had told him.

Gabriel waited, and eventually Castiel turned his face up to look at to him. His voice was almost a whisper.

"What _is_ it?"

Gabriel smiled at him with what might have been sympathy had he not seemed so pleased about the news he was about to give, and Castiel braced himself.

"It's a soul, Cas."

Castiel's hands were shaking, and he blinked, trying to find some kind of logical explanation for what Gabriel was telling him. Souls didn't just appear. His first thought was the one that made the most sense, even if it was unlikely.

"Is it... is it Jimmy?"

"No, Cas," Gabriel smiled at him again, and this time his jubilation was whole and sincere, "It's you. It's _all_ you."

Castiel leaned back against the sink, trying to wrap his head around his brothers words. _Unprecedented_ was an understatement. His mouth was dry.

"A soul?"

"Yes."

"A _soul_?"

His brother nodded, and Castiel turned away, leaning heavily against the sink. He turned on the water without quite knowing why, and the steam rose in white clouds around his head as he tried to think. He shook his head, certain that there was some mistake, that Gabriel had misunderstood something, but all the while feeling like it made sense somehow, that it explained so much.

"But I'm not... only humans have souls. I'm not a-" Castiel caught sight of his brothers expression in the mirror and he cut himself off with a whisper, "am I?"

"One hundred percent human," there was a smile in Gabriel's voice, "you get to live the dream, little brother. And actually _live_ it."

"But why me?" Castiel turned back toward him, his voice wavering.

"Joshua didn't say."

Sam's voice echoed up the stairs, startling him.

"Cas, you up there? We brought dinner!"

Gabriel grinned. He stood up and walked to the door, looking out into the hall before glancing back at his brother.

"Smells good, whatever it is. Shall we?"

"No," Castiel gulped and looked around, unable to focus on anything, "I need to... process."

"I'll tell them you're busy."

With a smile, Gabriel was gone. A split second later Castiel heard his voice booming "Surprise!" downstairs, followed by a glass shattering and Sam's voice muttering something about the Archangel needing a bell. He shook his head and closed the door, shutting out the voices that echoed up the stairs to focus on the one voice echoing in his mind.

_It's a soul, Cas._

Castiel stared at himself in the mirror, trying to understand what it meant. He cast his mind back over everything that had happened since he had fallen; the emotions he had felt, the feelings for Dean in particular, desire and hunger and exhaustion, the way the world had dulled and then come back bright and real, the way music could suddenly speak to him in ways he never imagined, and lastly, the pain he had felt with such intensity, like a black hole in his core.

He unbuttoned his borrowed shirt and pressed a hand over the space where his Grace once was, the space that was now filled to overflowing with something just as immense but not nearly as solid, and tried to imagine that he could sense it. He wondered, somewhat vainly, what it looked like. Each soul was different, after all. Dean's, he knew, was the color of burnt amber, though it tended toward gold when he was at his best. He had seen the way its shape stretched out to meet Sam's, Bobby's-even toward Castiel's own grace at times-and how it shifted to a deep, muddy gray whenever the hunter dwelled too heavily on mistakes and regrets.

In Hell, Castiel had seen it before he could even see Dean-it stretched upward, forever upward, as if still trying to reach his brother through the veil of death-and thought, even then, that such a soul was worth risking his life for.

He wondered if his own soul was reaching through the walls now, wondered if it was the same white-blue of his grace, if it was cool to the touch or burning hot.

But such knowledge was beyond his reach. Beyond his comprehension, really, if he was being honest. To view the soul of another, to touch it and feel it's raw power was one thing. But to have one, to _be_ one, was something else entirely.

_It's a soul, Cas. It's all you._

A surge of emotion unlike anything he had ever experienced ran through him, and it was all he could do to keep himself standing. Because for whatever reason, his father had seen fit to bless him, to free him from the rigid confines of Heaven and give him this gift. And he felt certain that that is what it was; a gift.

 _My soul,_ he thought, and a smile flickered across his face.

"My soul," he repeated the thought out loud.

His lips stretched into an even wider grin, and unable to hold it in, Castiel let out an hysterical giggle. The laughter, combined with the tears that had started falling freely from his wide eyes, made him look utterly mad. He didn't care.

He stood in the over-bright glow of the bathroom lights, time moving on all around him, and prayed.

This time it was not a question. It wasn't a plea for forgiveness or guidance, nor was it benediction.

This time, it was just one simple thought.

_Thank you._

* * *

Dean threw Bobby's front door wide open with maybe a little more force than was necessary, and it hit the wall with a thud. Sam stuck his head out into the hallway at the sound, chopsticks half raised to his mouth.

"Dean?"

He ignored his brother, walking past him to look into the kitchen. Behind Sam, Dean could see Gabriel sneaking a dumpling from Bobby's takeout box as the older hunter searched the fridge for a beer. The presence of the archangel wasn't enough to distract him from his self-imposed mission, and after determining that Castiel wasn't in the room, he turned back to Sam.

"Where's Cas?"

"Upstairs," Sam frowned, "what is it?"

Dean didn't answer. He took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, he vaguely heard Gabriel's voice in the kitchen, but the majority of the words were lost under Sam's responding guffaw and what sounded like Bobby choking on his beer.

Once upstairs, he slowed his pace. A light was on in the bathroom, glowing yellow through the cracks around the door, and Dean regarded it from a distance before moving hesitantly forward. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and that old familiar fear stopped him for a moment, telling him to go back downstairs, telling him this was a bad idea. He'd been listening to that voice for too long.

 _Shut up_ , he thought, and before he could back out he reached out to knock lightly on the door.

"Cas?"

Castiel didn't reply, and Dean decided to take the fact that he hadn't been told to go away as an invitation to enter. He pushed the door open, light spilling out into the dark hallway. Castiel was standing in front of the mirror, shirt unbuttoned with his hand pressed flat against the center of his chest, and for a moment Dean worried that his pain had returned.

"Are you okay?"

Castiel nodded and turned to face him.

"Better than."

In the bright light, he could see Castiel's eyes rimmed with red, and if it weren't for the odd smile that played across his features, Dean would have found it difficult to believe him. The guy was practically buzzing, and if the fearful little voices in the back of his mind were still talking, he couldn't hear them. He had messed things up royally; he knew it, and as he had stood in the dark of the scrapyard, holding the alternator in his hands, he had come to a decision. Now was the time to fix things. He took a breath, the right words somehow a lot more difficult to come up with now that he was actually ready to say them.

"Look," he began, stepping into the bathroom and half-closing the door behind him, "I was just..."

"It's okay, Dean. I understand. I'm fine," he paused, and though there was a hint of pain in his eyes he was controlling it, " _we're_ fine."

Castiel smiled at him, and Dean could see that he was telling the truth. It was clear that he was hurt, but he was determined to move past it. Dean knew that as far as Castiel was concerned they could walk out of the bathroom right now, go downstairs, eat Chinese takeout and pretend that what had passed between them in the yard had never happened. The ex-angel would willingly suppress his own feelings just to make Dean happy, and he wouldn't complain, and damn if that wasn't one more reason for Dean to make sure he didn't ever have to do it.

"Really," Castiel went on, "you don't need to-"

Before he could finish speaking, Dean crossed the room and took Castiel's face between his hands, savouring the bewildered look in his eyes for a split second before pressing his lips against Castiel's in a kiss that was at once urgent and hopeful. It wasn't long before Cas was kissing him back, and he felt the ex-angels hands lift to his sides. The light pressure of his wandering fingertips wasn't enough, and Dean stepped in closer, dropping his hands to cover Castiel's, pulling them more firmly against him as he memorized the contours of his lips.

Castiel sighed into him and Dean pulled back a fraction to look him directly in the eyes, the bright blue irises barely visible around his blown-out pupils.

"Sorry."

"For what?" Castiel murmured, his hands still gripping Dean at the waist as he stared back.

Dean's gaze flickered from Castiel's eyes down to his parted lips, and felt a spreading pleasure in the knowledge that he was the one to make the ex-angel look like that. Hungry. _Lustful_.

"For not doing that sooner."

Castiel tilted his head to the side, chewing absently on his lower lip as if considering the apology.

"I'll forgive you eventually."

The hunters breath mingled with his and Castiel smiled, running a hand up Dean's side. Dean leaned in then, nearly touching, then pulled back, teasing Castiel with an almost-kiss that had him straining to close the distance.

"But not if you keep this up."

Dean smirked at him and pressed his lips to Castiel's in a lingering kiss.

All of the reservations and fears that Dean had been carrying melted away, and if it weren't for the loud ringing of the phone downstairs, followed closely by the pounding of feet in the hallway, the two of them might have stayed there for hours.


	22. The Other Shoe

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Dean stepped back. He felt the loss of Castiel's lips instantly, and he tried not to notice the starved way that he leaned forward, seeking him, seeking more. He tried not to notice the flush that had spread over Castiel's neck and cheeks, or the way that the muscles of the ex-angels bare stomach were pulled tight with tension.

He cleared his throat and ran his tongue over his lips, speaking quietly.

"You might want to button up."

Castiel glanced down at his open shirt then back up at Dean as he fumbled with the buttons, and _damn_ did that make Dean want get right back into his personal space, push him hard up against the cool porcelain of the sink, run his hands over-

"Dean?"

Bobby's voice on the other side of the door was like cold water, and Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek. He cleared his throat again before he answered, but his voice still came out rough.

"Yeah, Bobby?"

"Rufus just called."

Castiel made a frustrated little sigh at the third button, which was refusing to go through its loophole, and Dean's concentration faltered as he watched long fingers tugging at the cotton shirt. He reached out and pushed the button through, his fingers tangling with Castiel's, brushing accidentally-on-purpose over smooth skin. After slightly too long a pause he realized that Bobby had spoken and barely managed the most basic response.

"And?"

"And it ain't good news."

Dean dragged his eyes away from Castiel and opened the door to find Bobby standing in the hallway, his brow lined with something he might call fear if it was on anyone else's face. On Bobby it just looked like he was pissed off. As his eyes flicked from Dean to the room behind him, the expression shifted to one of confused embarrassment. Dean glanced back into the bathroom where a red-faced Castiel was still struggling with the last few buttons on his shirt, and felt his own cheeks grow hot. He turned back to Bobby and shoved his hands into his pockets, determined to pretend nothing had been going on.

"Is it ever good news?" Dean's voice came out a little high.

Bobby's gaze flicked between them, and deciding that he really didn't want to know the reason the two of them were red-faced and flustered in his bathroom, simply grunted in agreement before delivering the bad news.

"The virus got out."

Instantly, images of 2014 cropped up in Dean's mind. Cities crumbling and derelict, streets stained with blood and overrun by the infected, ordinary people trying to rip each other to shreds in sheer mindless blood-lust. Bobby gone, killed in some attack he couldn't escape. Cas broken and hapless, drowning himself in excess just to cope with all his loss. Sam gone, and Lucifer walking around with his face. Himself, heartless and cold, hell-bent on revenge and sending Castiel to his death as a distraction, countless others dead and bloody in his wake. Images of the whole damn world falling apart.

He had been so stupid to think that they could stop it; every move they made just seemed to bring them closer. He felt a pit in his gut, and it took all he had just to funnel his fear and anger into two short syllables.

" _Dammit_."

Castiel looked at Dean with concern, and though he was without his grace, Dean got the distinct impression that he knew exactly what was on his mind. A tiny frown flickered over the ex-angels features. Bobby just took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. As he turned to walk back downstairs, gesturing for the two of them to follow him, he spoke with a weary sigh.

"Somethin' tells me shits about to get real bad, real fast."

* * *

In the kitchen, Sam and Gabriel were talking quietly, leaning across the table with hushed voices. As soon as the others walked in, they fell silent, and Sam sat up straight. He looked expectantly at Bobby.

"So, what's the situation?"

The atmosphere of the room grew heavy as Bobby filled in the blanks for Dean, Castiel and Gabriel, before recounting what Rufus had told him.

_The warehouse had been lousy with demons, and after Sam, Bobby and a hunter named Julie had sent every last one of them back to hell, and cleared out all the civilians they could find, they had retreated to the edges of the warehouse to await the signal. Rufus had been working with another two hunters; Julie's husband, Hank, and a whiny sonofabitch named Graham who Rufus wouldn't have bothered with if he hadn't been Julies kid brother. While Sam, Bobby and Julie had been busy with the ganking side of things, the other trio had been busy setting up explosive charges, and once they were all in place, tucked neatly into pallets of vaccine and circling the warehouse walls, they gave the signal to everyone to get back to their cars. Everything appeared to be going to plan, and they set off the explosives. The whole place lit up like a Christmas tree, and they all congratulated each other on a job well done. Bobby had suggested they all go get a beer, but Rufus was in a bad mood after spending all day with a pain-in-the-ass kid like Graham, and Graham himself declined, saying he was tired as shit and just wanted to get home. Julie drove off with her husband and her brother, and then, half an hour later, a battered old Dodge wagon was seen swerving into oncoming traffic, narrowly missing an eighteen-wheeler before it careened into a tree on the opposite side of the road._

Bobby frowned, looking at nothing in particular, and went on.

"The report came in on the police scanner. Apparently, witnesses saw man in his 20's attacking an older man in the passenger seat. He ripped the door off its hinges, and pulled the other man out of the car and ripped his throat out."

With a barely suppressed shudder, he went on, sparing a glance toward Sam, who had got along well with Hank and Julie, and was looking like he might be sick all over the kitchen floor.

"They said the woman fired a single shot at him. Got him directly between the eyes," Bobby sighed, "then turned the gun on herself. She never fired though. Apparently she kind of seized up, dropped it, and disappeared into the trees."

Sam stared up at him.

"Julie's...?"

Bobby nodded, his face tight.

"Infected, yeah by the sound of it. By the time Rufus got wind of it and realised who it was, the cops had picked her up. Said it took four men to restrain her. She's still in police custody."

Sam stared down at the floor with a pained frown, slowly shaking his head in shock.

"It gets worse," Bobby said with a grimace.

Dean snorted.

"Of course it does."

"One of the cops who caught her... he got cut."

"Shit," said Dean, "We're screwed."

"I'll say," Bobby leaned up against the kitchen counter and took off his hat, squeezing the brim absently between his hands as he spoke, "Rufus is trying to figure a way to get into the holding cell and gank Julie before she infects anyone else, but there's no telling how many people the cop has come into contact with."

Bobby looked around the room. Sam was still staring at the floor and Castiel was watching Dean, who looked like he might crack at any moment. Gabriel, however, wore a thoughtful frown, and he looked up at Bobby.

"I might be able to help."

Sam's head snapped up, and he looked at Gabriel in surprise.

"Really?"

"Sure. I've already broken the rules twice this week," he shrugged, "might as well go for the trifecta."

"What were the other two?" asked Dean.

Gabriel just winked.

"Thanks, Gabriel," Sam said, then turned to the others, his expression resolute, "and I think... I think it's time. I need to get Lucifer into the cage before things get any worse. Tomorrow. First thing."

"Wait a minute, Sam-"

"Time is of the essence, Dean," said Gabriel, cutting him off before turning back to Sam, "I'll track down patient zero, and Sam-I'll be back in the morning with the go-juice."

"The what?"

Dean looked from Gabriel to his brother, who shifted his gaze back to the floor.

"If he's going to be Lucifer's vessel, even for a few minutes, he's going to need to strengthen up," the archangel stood up and stretched out his arms, cracking the bones in his fingers, "and there's only one way to do that."

The words hung in the air, and Dean looked back at his brother, who seemed determined to avoid eye contact.

"Sam?"

Sam let out a sigh and Castiel looked at him with pity before turning to Dean.

"He means demon blood, Dean."

"Jesus Christ," Bobby muttered, then, realising his company, added, "sorry."

Incredulous, Dean stared at his brother.

"You've got to be kidding me."

When Sam made no response, Dean shook his head and turned away.

"Right..." Gabriel clicked his teeth together and looked around the room, suddenly heavy with tension, "I'll be going then."

Gabriel flexed as though spreading his wings, and then he was gone.

* * *

A half hour later, the silence in the kitchen was palpable.

The enormity of what they were planning to do was weighing down on all of them, and the three hunters sat around the table, absently pushing their half-eaten dinner around in their boxes. Dean's face was set in a frown, something dark stewing under the quiet mask.

Castiel, who had disappeared into the library after Gabriel left, searching through the books for a sigil he thought might further strengthen Sam, came back into the room. Sam looked up at him with a hopeful expression, and he shook his head in response as he sat down beside Dean, eyeing what was left of the food.

"Here," Bobby shoved what was left of the box of dumplings toward him, "pretty much everything's gone cold, but these are still good."

He took the dumplings with a nod of thanks, but what appetite he'd had earlier was all but gone.

After fifteen minutes, he'd eaten two, and nobody had spoken another word.

They all sat, not eating, not speaking, just staring into space. Each of them trying to think of another way, some reason to put it off for a few more days, _anything_ , because it was a flawed plan, and one that, even if successful, was condemning Sam to an eternity in Lucifer's cage.

It would be a victory, but it sure as hell wouldn't feel like one.

Finally too uncomfortable with the hush that had descended over his house, Bobby pushed himself up from the table and dug through the fridge. He pulled out a six pack and offered them around. Instinctively, Dean reached out a hand to accept one, but then with a barely perceptible glance toward Castiel he changed his mind. Instead he waved them away and went to the cupboard to pull out a glass.

"Cas, you want water?"

He said it conversationally, but there was something under it, something that made Bobby not want to offer a bottle to the ex-angel.

"Yes."

Dean poured them both tall glasses of water and sat back down.

In all the years that he had known Dean, Bobby could have counted on one hand the amount of times he had turned down a drink, and usually the night before a particularly nasty job would require at least a couple of drinks in preparation. As he put the rest of the six pack in the fridge, Bobby decided it was probably for the best that Dean was laying off the booze, and figured it wasn't a good idea to look a gift horse in the mouth anyway.

He took a long pull from his own bottle and glanced around at the others. The silence was back and thicker than ever, and he sensed some argument or other was brewing, bubbling away under the surface. After a moment Bobby decided he'd rather not be there for it. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I reckon I'll hit the books one last time," he said, "See if there's somethin' we missed that'll help."

Sam gave him a nod, and with another swig from his bottle, Bobby left the room, glad to escape the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Dean was still glowering. He turned his glass of water around and around on the table, staring at it as though it was withholding information from him. Sam watched him, and seeing that his brother was about three seconds away from starting a fight, he took an oversized mouthful of beer. As Dean opened his mouth, Sam cut him off.

"We have all the rings, Dean," he said, his voice quiet but sure, "I have to do it now."

Dean levelled him with a look that dared him to try and spoke through clenched teeth.

"Not yet."

"There's no other-"

"I said not yet, Sam," Dean said, slamming his glass down on the table, the water splashing up over the brim, "we'll figure something out."

"We don't have time."

Dean flinched, and instinctively, Castiel leaned toward him, wanting to offer some form of comfort. He knew, as did Sam, that Dean would go along with the plan, but it didn't mean he was okay with it. With his hand resting lightly on the hunter's shoulder, he spoke quietly.

"He's right, Dean. This is the only chance we have."

Sam's raised his brow, still surprised that Castiel had faith in him, as his brother pushed himself up from his seat.

Dean took a deep breath. He knew Sam was right. Of course he knew. They were out of options, out of time. Things were only going to get worse if they waited. But this... he would _never_ be okay with this. He knew what was waiting for Sam in the pit, and the thought of letting his little brother willingly jump into it turned his stomach.

Dean had been torn to shreds in hell, he'd endured pain beyond anything he could even begin to describe, and when he'd finally given in and stepped down from the rack at Alastair's command, he'd inflicted pain even worse. And that was going to be a picnic in comparison to what was waiting for Sam. Knowing that Sam would be locked in a cage with Lucifer for eternity was the same as going back to hell himself. He wondered absently if he had never left, if this past two years was just some trick, some elaborate hallucination dreamed up by Alastair just so he could take it away again.

The thought made him shudder, and he could almost feel the burnt flesh peeling from his chest, almost hear the distant screams of souls begging for mercy that would never come.

He squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed a hand over his neck.

"I just... I-"

Dean exhaled, shaking his head as he looked at his brother, who offered him a pitiful smile.

"I know, Dean."

Dean nodded to himself. The hell memories were flooding his head, and looking at Sam, knowing this was the last night that he would see his brother, was damn near killing him. He needed air, needed to get away.

Without another word he turned and walked outside.

Castiel let out a sigh, his eyes on the door, but made no move to follow.

"Go on, Cas," Sam said, "maybe he'll listen to you."

* * *

He found Dean sitting in the Impala with his eyes closed.

Music flowed from the speakers, and it wound out through the cracked window, the twang of guitar mingling with the soft sound of traffic beyond the scrap yard. Castiel made his way to the passenger door and pulled it open, the sound startling Dean. His eyes flicked open, and he jerked his hand instinctively toward the knife that he kept wedged between the door and the drivers seat, just in case. When he realised who it was his features softened, and he leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes once more.

Castiel sank into the seat and pulled the door closed. He watched Dean with worry, wondering what he could do to help. After a moment, the hunter spoke, his eyes still closed.

"I can feel you staring at me, Cas."

"Sorry."

Dean opened his eyes and looked sidelong at Castiel with a tired smile.

"Wasn't complaining."

"Oh."

Castiel turned a little, leaning the side of his face against the seat to meet Dean's weary eyes.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Dean, but Sam _is_ right," Castiel paused and reached out toward Dean, then pulled back, unsure if the contact would be welcome, "but I think you already know that."

Castiel's hand came to rest on the console between them, and Dean dropped his gaze and nodded, a small movement of his head that would have been invisible had Castiel not known it was coming. After a moment, he sighed, closing his eyes again, as though embarrassed by the pain that was evident in his voice.

"He shouldn't have to do this, Cas."

"You're right. He shouldn't," Castiel agreed, turning back to face the dashboard as the song finished, "but he is willing, and without him we don't stand a chance."

For a long moment, the car was as silent as the kitchen, then the sound of a choir, quiet at first but slowly building, faded in from the speakers.

Dean let out a heavy breath and Castiel felt cool fingers on his hand, which still rested on the console. He glanced over at Dean.

The choir stopped, and soft guitar filled the air.

"You should go back inside. Spend time with him."

Dean stared down at their hands, and Castiel turned his over so they were palm to palm, fingers linking. The hunter's expression was self-conscious, clearly not used to this and maybe even a little embarrassed by how needy he suddenly found himself, but he made no move to let go. The feel of Castiel's fingers woven into his was comforting, and whether he cared to admit it or not, that's what he needed right now.

"I will. Just..." he paused, "I just need a few minutes to think."

With a nod, Castiel moved as if to leave, and Dean's hand tightened around his.

Castiel felt something warm and aching spread through his chest, and his eyes crinkled with a smile as he returned the pressure, leaning back against his seat. After a moment, Dean spoke, his voice quiet.

"Thanks, Cas."

Castiel responded with another squeeze of his hand, and they sat in silence, letting the music roll over them.

Finally, when the song came to an end, fading out into nothing, Dean ran his tongue over his dry lips and nodded to himself.

"Okay."

He let go of Castiel's hand and gave him a brief smile before they climbed from the car into the cool night air. They walked back toward the house in silence, until, just outside the door, Dean paused. He looked up at the house and rubbed his knuckles over the back of his neck, his shoulders tense.

Castiel stopped close beside him, his arm bumping against the hunter's as Dean turned to face him, exhaustion and hopeless fear etched into the lines on his forehead. Castiel regarded him with sadness.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

Dean exhaled, bringing his hand up to Castiel's chest. He needed contact, warmth, _something_ , and he needed it now. He stepped in close, ducking his head slightly to briefly touch his lips to Castiel's, and as he pulled away the ex-angel spoke again, barely a whisper, his breath tickling Dean's chin.

"I'm so sorry."

He leaned back in for another kiss, but the gentle movement of lips against his was suddenly too soft, not enough. He took Castiel's lower lip between his own, tracing it with his tongue as his hands roamed over the ex-angels back, pulling them closer together. Castiel let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and his tongue flicked out, sliding against Dean's for a moment, making Dean echo the sound. He needed this, _oh, God_ he needed this.

They moved against one another, their kiss growing deeper, both men's hands touching and pulling and pressing, gripping at sleeves and collars of clothes that all of a sudden seemed not only unnecessary but entirely offensive. Dean slid one hand up the back of Castiel's shirt, his fingers spread wide as they roamed over warm skin, and felt the hard press of hips and thigh, and _oh_ -

An embarrassed laugh, cut short and muffled, pulled them both out of the moment, and Dean spun around, the flush on his cheeks almost instant. Standing in the doorway with his hand over his half-open mouth, Sam was trying desperately to stop from laughing again. He held an old video tape, it's cardboard case faded and torn from years of repeat viewings.

"Uhh... I was wondering if you... if you wanted to watch Rush Hour," Sam's eyes flicked between the two of them and he shifted on his feet, clearing his throat, "but uhh... I'll just..."

Dean stared up at him, trying to decide whether to tell Sam to quit giving him the judgy-douchebag look or act like nothing was going on, though why he even considered the latter was beyond him-his brother had obviously seen everything.

Sam just stood there, an awkward grin on his face, and tapped his fingers over the video tape.

"...uhh," he nodded to himself, as he backed into the house, the door swinging shut behind him and muffling his voice, "I'll, uh... yeah."

Dean's face was bright red, and he looked at Castiel with a nervous laugh.

"Well, at least that saved us the trouble of telling him."

Before Castiel could respond, the door swung back open, and Sam stuck his head out.

"Way to make my last night on Earth super awkward, guys."

He disappeared back into the house, his voice loud and echoing into the yard as he made his way down the hallway.

"Hey Bobby!"

"What?"

"You just won twenty bucks."


	23. One Step Forward

In the brief, dumbfounded silence that followed Sam's departure, Dean opened and closed his mouth more times than Castiel could count. It distracted him to no end, and finally, after staring at him for what felt like years but must have been closer to about thirty seconds, he grabbed hold of the hunter's collar and pulled him close, kissing him roughly on the mouth with more force than he had intended.

"Damn, Cas," Dean breathed.

Castiel felt the words form against his lips, and he went back for more. After a moment, he pulled away, knowing that it was important that they spend time with Sam tonight, that Dean was just stalling, and though he wanted this contact more than anything right now, it really wasn't the right time.

"Dean," Castiel's said, his eyes lidded as he tried to fight off his desire, "we should go back inside."

Dean pulled his own lower lip into his mouth and bit down, the sound of Castiel's voice doing things to him. Things that required immediate attention.

"We have a minute," he said, quiet in the near-non-existent space between them, and Castiel let out a moan in response.

"A _minute_ will not do."

Dean smirked. He knew full well that if they started up again they'd most likely be out here all night, but the idea that Castiel was thinking the same thing sent a thrill through him. Several microwave beeps came from inside the house behind them, and Dean glanced back toward the door before looking back at Castiel with a sly grin.

"We have four minutes," he said, and at Castiel's confused expression, added, "Sam's making popcorn."

He leaned in, kissing Castiel as though his life depended on it. When he pulled away, Castiel was breathless, leaning toward him for more.

Dean exhaled slowly and ran the tips of his fingers over Castiel's stomach, then stepped back, letting his hand drop away. Castiel shifted toward him and he grinned, walking toward the house.

"Come on, Cas."

* * *

Bobby's TV was dusty from lack of use, and when a search for the VCR remote came up empty, Sam crouched awkwardly in front of the set, finger on the fast-forward button. Dean sat on the sofa beside Castiel, a giant bowl of popcorn balanced on his knee.

"Press play," he said through a mouthful.

"Hang on."

"You're missing the credits."

Sam glanced back at him.

"So?"

" _So_?" Dean shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk, "The credits set the tone, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he turned back to the VCR.

"You set the tone."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Sam rewound the tape back to the beginning and hit play, then returned to the sofa, grabbing the bowl from Dean. It was half empty. He looked from the bowl to his brother, his expression incredulous.

"Jesus, Dean. How much did you eat?"

Dean shifted in his seat and swallowed the rest of his mouthful.

"It was Cas."

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

"I've hardly-"

"Shut up, the lot of you," Bobby growled from his armchair, but there was humor beneath it, "some of us are trying to watch the damn movie."

When Dean and Castiel had made their way inside a few minutes earlier, Sam had made no mention of what he had seen in the yard. Now, though, he leaned back on the sofa to dig through his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled twenty and shoved it into Bobby's hand.

"Your winnings," he said, glancing at Dean with a smug grin that Dean wanted to slap off his face.

Bobby responded with a chuckle and jammed the note into his jeans.

Dean glared at both of them, but Castiel looked genuinely confused. As Sam took a long pull from his beer, he leaned forward to look at Bobby.

"I don't understand. How did you win twenty dollars from Sam?"

Sam started laughing and choked on his beer, while Dean groaned to himself, covering his face with his hands.

"A bet," was all the answer Bobby managed before laughter took over. He and Sam couldn't control themselves.

"What's so funny?"

Castiel stared at them both, and when he got no response beyond their increasingly loud guffaws and tear-streaked faces, he shook his head and addressed Dean.

"Apparently there's still a lot you'll have to teach me about how people work, Dean."

To Castiel's ever-growing confusion, this comment only served to make them laugh even harder, and Dean sank back into the sofa, his face redder than ever.

* * *

The hours passed too quickly. They watched Rush Hour, and then Rush Hour 2, and Sam and Dean argued about who would win in a series of hypothetical fights between themselves and Jackie Chan. Bobby watched them with a smile, his sadness barely veiled.

Normally a night like this-sitting in front of the TV, the boys being regular brothers, making fun of each other, joking and just hanging out-would be a good one, but this time it was undercut by a sense of dread, of anticipation, tense and foreboding.

It was after midnight when Bobby kicked them out of the room.

"Go on, get out of here. I need my beauty sleep."

"Don't you want your room back?"

"Not with your funk all up in the sheets," Bobby said with a frown, shoving them of the sofa, "you can have it one more night."

Bobby's words were heavier than he'd meant. One more night. The color drained from his face, but before he could say anything else Sam nodded at him with a smile.

"Okay, thanks."

Sam knew Bobby hadn't meant it that way, and he figured it was best to pretend he hadn't made the connection. Bobby smiled back, grateful. All four of them had, at some point, made a silent agreement to act like this was just another night, that nothing bad was happening tomorrow, and he was glad that it would end that way.

As they left the room, Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

"Night, Bobby."

"Yeah, yeah."

Dean disappeared upstairs, muttering something about giving Seabiscuit a run for his money, and Castiel made his way onto the back veranda with Sam.

They leaned over the railing and stared out at the dark scrap yard. The sky above was heavy, the moon straining to be seen through dense clouds, and their breath fogged out before them in the cool air.

After a minute, Sam looked over at Castiel, his expression thoughtful, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"So," he said, "you and Dean, huh?"

Castiel swallowed, his eyes furtive. What was happening between Dean and himself was, as yet, undefined, and didn't know how to respond. His mouth goldfished open and closed, reminding him of Dean in the yard earlier.

"I mean, I'm not surprised exactly," Sam shrugged to himself, looking back out at the mass of cars.

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

"You seemed surprised when you saw us."

Sam laughs.

"Yeah, well... I can't say I loved getting an eyeful of you two making out. But I don't know," he paused, shrugged again, "You guys make sense."

Castiel still had no idea what to say.

"What does it feel like?"

This startled him; the question seemed wildly inappropriate, especially coming from Sam, and Castiel's face must have betrayed what he was thinking because Sam suddenly put his hands up and shook his head frantically, clearly mortified.

"Oh, god, no. Not that. I meant you having a soul now," Sam clarified, adding with a wave of the hand, "Gabriel told me."

Castiel couldn't stop the smile that found its way onto his face. He looked at Sam, and the grin must have been infectious, because immediately he saw it mirrored back to him. He considered the question for a moment, then answered as best he could, his gaze fixed on the bright face of the moon, which had finally broken through a gap in the clouds.

"Different. Good, but different. I feel more connected to people... more than before, but at the same time... I don't know."

He paused, glancing back at Sam, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"I haven't told Dean yet."

Sam nodded to himself, and Castiel was glad he didn't ask why. He wasn't entirely sure himself why he hadn't mentioned it to Dean yet, though he suspected it was to something do with those insecure thoughts he'd had about his lack of angelic power that seemed so far away now, but were still ever-present in the back of his mind. Sam merely considered the information for a moment before offering advice.

"Tell him. With everything that's going on right now, any good news is going to help."

"I will."

Castiel smiled, a small, grateful smile, and for a moment they stood in companionable silence. Quite suddenly, he felt a wave of regret as it came back to him that this was Sam's last night on Earth. A heavy feeling in his chest made his eyes prickle and he turned back to the hunter.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

He didn't need to specify what for; Sam knew. It was in the heaviness of his tone, in the desolate sadness of his eyes. Sam smiled, but it was hollow.

"You know what? I'm really okay."

Castiel frowned, not quite believing him, but he didn't say anything. Sam, seeing the dubious expression on Castiel's face, went on.

"Look, I know it's going to suck," he smirked at his own understatement, "but if it's what has to be done to stop the planet from being roasted, then I'm willing to do it."

He paused, looking at his feet.

"To be honest, the thing I've been most worried about with this whole plan is Dean. What he'll do on his own after I'm gone," Sam crinkled his brow, "he's not exactly the best at coping with things. But now, I think he'll be okay, because he has you. I think you're good for him."

Sam thought for a moment, his face twitching into a smile as if something obvious was just occurring to him.

"You know-he laughs more."

"What do you mean?"

"When you're around. He laughs more. Like, _really_ laughs."

"He does?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he does," Sam smiled widely at Castiel, and there was real affection there, "I'm glad he's got you, Cas."

A warmth found its way into Castiel's chest, nestling there where once he had felt only fear and pain. He smiled back, glad that he at least got this moment with Sam; a friend he hadn't known he'd had until so recently.

"Sam, are you... are you giving me your blessing?"

Sam laughed to himself and rubbed a hand over his face before he looked back at Castiel.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am," he pushed away from the railing with a yawn, "and now I'm going to bed. Night, Cas."

"Goodnight, Sam."

Sam left the veranda. Castiel heard his footsteps echo up the stairs, followed by the muffled sound of voices as the two hunters met in the hallway upstairs. A couple of minutes later, Dean was leaning against the door frame, yawning widely.

"You tired?"

Castiel nodded.

"Come on, then."

Dean disappeared back into the house, and Castiel followed, the anticipation of telling Dean his good news bubbling within.


	24. Morning

Castiel woke in the middle of the night, the makeshift mattress on the floor lumpy and uneven, and not exactly easy to sleep on.

Outside, the once cloudy sky was wide and clear, and the brilliant moonlight lit up the closet in front of him. He held up one hand, watching as the shadow of his outstretched fingers moved over the door. Flexing them just so, the dark shape almost looked like a wing, and he felt a wave of regret at the thought of never flying again. It was the thing he missed the most; the feeling of moving swiftly through the ether, carried by energy so endless that it was beyond comprehension. He lowered his hand, telling himself not to dwell on it.

He was human now, _really_ human, and that was something.

Hours earlier, as he had followed Dean up the stairs, Castiel had considered just blurting out the news about his soul. The words formed in his mouth, nearly came tumbling out in a flurry more than once, but he stopped himself. He wanted to say it right, and that meant that it required consideration.

As he had cleaned his teeth with the brush that Sam had bought him, trying to refrain from eating the fresh, minty foam that shouldn't taste so much like food if it wasn't for consumption, he felt himself become increasingly nervous about bringing it up.

Though he knew that Sam was right-the good news would certainly be welcome-he was afraid that telling Dean now would seem insensitive, as though he were taking the focus away from where it needed to be. He was aware that he was probably being a little irrational, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to stop overthinking it.

A knock had come at the bathroom door right as he was putting down the toothbrush, and he pulled it open to find Dean dressed only in his underwear and a faded tshirt.

"You done in here?"

Castiel nodded and walked out into the hallway as the hunter's eyes flicked to the corner of his mouth, where a little toothpaste had gathered. Before he could take another step, Dean slipped a hand around his waist and leaned in, his tongue darting out to sweep over the ex-angels lip, then pulled back, his eyes twinkling.

"Minty." he said with a wink, pulling the bathroom door shut between them.

Castiel smiled to himself and went to the bedroom.

The unexpected kiss had scrambled his mind somewhat, and as he pulled off his jeans in the dark he found himself thinking of the fantasy he'd indulged in in the shower days earlier. If he'd known then that Dean's eyes would ever have held that kind of hunger in reality, he might have waited for- he cleared his throat and glanced at the doorway.

Not the time

, he thought.

He folded his borrowed clothes neatly, setting them on the floor, and decided that the best course of action would be to let Dean get a good nights sleep, in the proper bed tonight, and save the good news for later.

By the time Dean had come back from the bathroom, Castiel was already curled up under a blanket on the floor, his eyes closed. He heard Dean pause in the doorway, felt the hunter's eyes on him, but made no sign that he was awake. After a moment the hallway light went out and he heard footsteps, softer now, moving across the floorboards behind him, followed by the groan of bedsprings and the shuffling of blankets.

He had been asleep soon after, lulled into unconsciousness by the rhythm of Dean's breath. Now, though, Castiel rolled over, blinking in the bright moonlight.

Across the room, Dean was sitting with his back against the wall beside the window, his eyes squeezed shut. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and as Castiel watched, the hunter let out a deep breath and pressed fingers hard against his temples. He was breathing deeply through gritted teeth, and his whole body was tensed as though in physical pain.

Unable to stop himself, Castiel pushed his blanket away, the air cold against his bare legs, and stood up. He stepped forward, the ancient floorboards creaking beneath his feet.

"Dean?" he said, quietly, hesitantly.

At the sudden sound, Dean's eyes snapped open. He dropped his hands to look up at Castiel, bleary-eyed with lack of sleep. His face was pale and drawn, and Castiel took another step toward him, his eyes narrow with worry.

"Are you okay?"

Dean opened his mouth, ready to respond with the usual knee-jerk _I'm fine_ that had served him every time he had ever been asked that question before, but with one look at Castiel he changed his mind. He let out a breath and shook his head, too tired to keep up any kind of pretence.

"No, not really Cas," he rubbed his hands over his face, "not really."

Castiel sat down on the bed next to him, the springs of the old mattress straining audibly with the extra weight, and slid up so his back was against the wall between the window and Dean, their elbows bumping together. He decided not to press the issue and waited, hoping that Dean would open up on his own. It payed off; after a moment, the hunter let out a heavy sigh, tilting his head back to lean against the wall and stare up at the ceiling.

"I just... Sam shouldn't have to..." he shook his head.

With a nod, Castiel pulled his own knees up, wrapping his arms around them to keep warm as he waited for Dean to continue.

"Our whole lives, Cas... we've just been dealt more and more crap, and I can't understand why. Why us? Why Sam? What the hell is the point? Everything is such a fucking mess, and _God_ ," he spits out the word as though the taste of it in his mouth is too much to bear, "is just sitting on his ass, not just letting it happen but _making_ it happen. And it's bullshit, Cas. It's just such total _bullshit_."

The words hung in the air.

In the years that Castiel had known him, he had never heard Dean sound so defeated, and it put an aching in his chest that felt all-too-similar to the void.

As he searched for the words to make it right, Castiel shifted a little on the bed, his knee bumping against Dean's. Turning to look at Castiel, Dean let out a long breath.

"I'm..."

Dean didn't even know where to begin. He wanted to tell Castiel that he was scared-no, _terrified-_ of losing Sam, that he didn't know what he was going to do if this plan failed, much less if they succeeded, and that everything was getting a little too close to becoming the future Zachariah had dragged him into. He wanted to tell him that he hated the timing of this thing between them, whatever it was, and that he wished things were different. He wanted to tell him that he wanted to kiss him, to feel something good in the middle of this neverending torrent of awful that was his life. He wanted to tell him that he just wanted to have this, to be happy for once. Hadn't they all suffered enough? Hadn't they all _done_ enough?

His adams apple bobbed in his throat, and he stared at Castiel with tired eyes, not expecting an answer but needing to ask all the same.

"Why can't He ever just let us have one damn thing?"

Castiel looked back at him for a moment.

 _Now_ , he thought, _tell him now._

He reached across to take Deans hand and pressed it down against his chest.

"Can you feel that, Dean?"

Dean looked at their tangled fingers, felt the steady rise and fall of Castiel's breath, the rumble of his voice, the too-quick pulse of his heart. A warmth radiating from him, a warmth he hadn't had before he had fallen. He nodded.

"I didn't have to breathe when I had my grace. My heart didn't work, either. The pulse was there, if I wanted it, but it didn't need to be."

Dean pressed his hand a little closer against Castiel's chest, really feeling the _thump thump thump_.

"But then I fell. My senses dulled, and my vessel became my body. It started to work to keep me alive. I felt things. I felt pain, thirst, desire, hunger. Emotions stronger than any I could feel before. I thought then that I was human. But I wasn't. Not really."

There was a question in Dean's eyes, and Castiel clarified. Sort of.

"I slept, but I didn't dream."

Castiel moved his thumb softly over Dean's hand, still pressed against his chest, and Dean shifted a little closer to him as he continued.

"At first I prayed to my Father to help me, to return my grace, to make me whole again, but He didn't answer. I thought He wasn't listening. I was sure that he had forsaken me, that I had disappointed him somehow, that I had failed. And I still thought so until tonight, because my grace is still gone, and there is no chance of finding it. But that's okay."

"How do you mean?"

"Because it turns out that he did answer. I was just asking the wrong question."

The pulse beneath his hand got faster, and Dean looked up from their hands to meet Castiel's eyes. Even in the dark room they shone, bright as the moonlight through the window.

"A couple of days ago, all that pain that I was in just fell away. The void was filled and I started to feel, to truly _feel_ , in so many ways, intense emotions that I cannot begin to describe. There are flavours and emotions and sensations I never knew existed. Music speaks to me now."

He paused.

"And I dream. I never dreamed before this week. I didn't understand what was happening to me, because it hadn't happened before. To anyone. Crowley saw it, and so did Gabriel. I felt it but I didn't know. God... my father... He answered my prayers. He made me whole."

He smiled at Dean, his eyes wide and bright.

"Dean," his voice cracked a little as he spoke, "he gave me a soul."

Castiel's pulse was racing, and Dean felt his own speeding up to the point that it was like a race to see whose would burst first. He had no words.

"Cas..."

Castiels fingers tightened around his, and he looked at him seriously, but the smile hadn't left his eyes.

"Dean, I just... I know you have no faith in Him. And I understand, after everything, believe me I understand. But just... know that He listens. You just have to know what to ask."

For a moment, Castiel stared into the darkness, his brow creased as a memory played at the corners of his mind.

"Maybe..." he looked back at Dean, "maybe it's like that song you were listening to tonight."

Dean cocked his head in question, and even as he did it the hunter realised he was starting to act like Castiel from spending so much time around him. Castiel offered him a small smile, and spoke with a shrug.

"You can't always get what you want."

Dean leaned in and kissed him before he could finish the thought, but as soon as he pulled away, Castiel spoke again, his voice barely a whisper.

"But if you try," he was cut off again by another kiss, "sometimes..."

Dean kissed over the edge of his mouth, across his cheek, to the dip at his jawline, and Castiel murmured into his hair.

"You get what you need."

The hunter let out a tired sigh in response, and Castiel slid his fingers up over Dean's neck, his cheek, turning his face up and pulling him back in, their lips easily finding each other in the dark.

He felt the stubble at Dean's jaw and explored the texture, his fingertips brushing softly over the raised bump of a scar as their mouths moved together in a slow rhythm. He sighed into Dean, parting his lips slightly to feel the hunters tongue slip over his, and he followed suit, deepening the kiss. A guttural moan, desperate and animal, came from low in Dean's throat as he wrapped his arms around Castiel's waist, pulling him closer.

It wasn't enough, and after a moment he moved up onto his knees and pushed Castiel back, kneeling over him as their kisses became deeper, harder, more desperate. He needed this. Everything else was falling apart and this, whatever it was, was the only good thing he had. Being with Castiel like this felt right, and he needed that more than anything right now.

After some time, their kisses slowed and Dean tilted his face down to press into the hollow of Castiel's collarbone, breathing him in.

Castiel trailed one hand slowly up and down his arm, and Dean sat up, reaching for the blanket which had gathered at the foot of the bed. Without another word, he lay back down beside Castiel, pulling the blanket over them both.

Quite suddenly they fell asleep, and both mens dreams were filled with the kind of warmth and peace that only a forced angelic slumber could bring.

Outside in the hallway, Gabriel paused, and hoped that he was doing the right thing.

* * *

Dean awoke to full sunlight, his arm draped over Castiel's waist, his face inches away, lips parted. He felt the steady rise and fall of breath, felt the warm press of Castiel's legs tangled with his own, and for a moment everything was okay. The illusion didn't last.

He glanced at his watch on the chest of drawers beside the bed.

11:15am

It was late, too late, and they should have left hours ago. But the house was silent, and they had slept. There was no way in hell that Sam could have overslept this much, and he or Bobby should have woken them by pounding on the door as usual... but he hadn't.

The sense of dread that rose up within was all-encompassing, and in an instant he staggered out of bed, the sudden movement waking Castiel, who sat up, groggily blinking in the bright sun.

"Dean?"

Without stopping to explain, panic overtaking his every thought, Dean ran out into the hallway and threw open the door to Bobby's old room.

"Sam?"

It was empty, the bed made, Sam's duffel sitting in the corner.

"Sam!" he called out again, louder.

His voice echoed through the house, and there was no reply. Castiel walked out into the hallway behind him and as Dean glanced back to meet his worried eyes, he felt his throat constrict. He ran downstairs, Castiel following close behind, to find Bobby stumbling out of the library, his eyes still crusted with sleep.

"What the hell's going on?"

"It's Sam," Dean forced the words out, "he's gone."

Bobby stared at him with a furrowed brow, then saw the time.

"God _damnit_."

Castiel stood in the doorway, and Dean stepped around him, making his way to the kitchen. An envelope sat in the middle of the table, Dean's name printed across the front in black pen. His fingers shaking, Dean tore it open and read Sam's scrawled cursive, the words becoming messier and harder to read as the letter went on.

**_  
Dean;_ **

**_I know you're gonna be pissed, but it was either leave a note or ~~deal with your yelli~~  
try to convince you to sit this one out. ~~~~_**

**_~~And we both know how stubborn you~~ _ **   
  
**_I can do this, but not if I'm worrying about all of you getting killed.  
I have to do it alone. Kind of alone._ **   
**_I'm with Gabriel. He has the rings and knows the incantation to open the cage, so if all goes to plan,  
Lucifer will be locked up before noon._ **   
**_Just do me a favour; look after each other. All of you._ **   
**_I'm not doing this just for you to get yourselves killed in a week._ **   
**_Thank you ~~for looking after~~_ **   
~~**_for being_ ** ~~ **__**   
**_for everything._ **   
**_I'm sorry. I love you._ **   
**_We don't say that enough, but there it is._ **

**_\- Sam_ **

**_  
_ **

Dean's hands were shaking as he read, and finally, he held the letter out toward Bobby.

"That stupid sonofabitch."

Bobby took it and stared at it with wide eyes, Castiel reading over his shoulder. After a moment, Bobby looked up. He knew Dean too well to think he would let Sam get away that easily.

"Where d'you reckon he is?"

Dean shrugged, the movement shaky and jarring when coupled with his thousand-yard stare. Castiel cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick.

"Stull Cemetery," he said, and at the question in Dean's eyes, added; "That's where the final battle is meant to begin. If Sam is saying yes, I expect that's where Gabriel would have taken him."

Bobby shoved the letter down onto the table and looked at the others, his expression stern.

"Then I guess we've got some drivin' to do."


	25. When It Hits The Fan

From the moment Bobby spoke, time lost all meaning.

It hung as if the whole world was stuck, waiting for a single tick of the old clock on Bobby's kitchen wall, then sped up, disappearing so rapidly that it was a wonder that the sun was still visible.

Dean and Castiel bolted up the stairs to throw on some clothes, and Bobby, who had slept fully dressed on the couch, leaned against the wall by the front door, pulling on his boots.

By the time they left the house, all three men racing down the stairs toward the Impala, barely ten minutes had passed. Castiel felt certain it had been hours. Time was running out, yet at the same time it _dragged_. It was wrong, all wrong.

Outside, the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue. The bright sun mocked them; it's warmth a bitter lie on a day this dark.

As Dean threw open the trunk of the Impala to shove in a pile of weapons that would most likely be useless against the devil, Bobby paused at the passenger door, his brow wrinkled in concern.

"Wait," he said, "should I... is there a chance this is going down some place else?"

Dean slammed the trunk and looked at Bobby, frowning as he made his way to the drivers side.

"Like where?"

"You said that he told you it would happen in Detroit."

"I don't know... maybe, but-"

"I'll head to Detroit then. Just in case."

Dean stared at him.

"There's no way you'll get there fast enough."

Even as Dean said it, a little voice in the back of his mind told him it was probably too late already, and he clenched his teeth. Bobby just shrugged, trying to disguise the fear in eyes and failing.

"I know a guy with a Cessna. Might as well cash in the favor he owes me."

"And what if Sam..." Dean clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly before he continued, "what if Lucifer is there? What are you going to do?"

"Probably about as much as we were going to do in Lawrence."

Bobby was right. No matter what happened, it was not likely that there was going to be a good outcome. Either Sam would end up in the pit, or Lucifer would overpower him. There were no other options. All he knew was that they couldn't let Sam do this on his own. No matter what, Dean had to let him know that he wasn't alone.

With a nod, Dean climbed into the Impala, and Bobby leaned down, looking through the window at him as Castiel slipped into the passenger seat. He rested his hand on the roof.

"If I don't see you two-"

"We'll see you," Dean said, his voice tight as he turned the key, "just... we'll see you later, alright?"

"Yeah," Bobby smiled in at him, "Yeah, I'll see you later."

Bobby stood back and watched as the Impala tore down the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. With a heavy breath he made his way to his car, digging a set of keys from his pocket.

As he pulled out into the road, he spared a glace back at his house in the rear-view. There were a lot of memories in that house, and while he drove they flashed through his head. He'd been looking after Sam and Dean for years, watching them while John was off on a hunt, teaching them the practical things that John never seemed to have time for and letting them just be kids.

One Fall, when Sam was twelve, John had taken off after what he had thought was Yellow Eyes and Bobby had the boys with him at the house for two weeks.

A few days in, while Dean had been watching Bobby dismantle the engine of a worn out '72 Mustang, Sam had gone exploring in the nearby woods. He came back two hours later, covered in mud, and carrying a dog. It was a little runt of a thing, a Rottweiler pup that some lowlife had left to die in a cardboard box half-submerged in the river. Sam had come running into the garage, the dog squirming and whining in his arms, it's paws too big for its skinny frame, and asked _Do you reckon Dad will let me keep him?_

Dean pointed out that they couldn't exactly take a dog with them on the road, and Sam looked crushed. He begged Bobby to let him look after it, just until John came back, and, big softy that he was, he'd agreed. Though he _had_ planned to take the pup to the pound once John collected the kids, he went and got attached to the damn thing. He had that dog for years.

Eventually, Rumsfeld grew into his paws. He'd been good company, that dog, lazy as he was, and he never failed to remind Bobby of the big-hearted kid that had, even then, been set on helping the weak and needy.

He might have been the one feeding him and walking him and tossing a ratty old tennis ball for him in the yard, but as far as he was concerned, Rumsfeld was a family dog, and he belonged to Sam and Dean just as much as Bobby. Even when he hadn't seen the Winchesters for years, when too much time had passed between visits, that dog had been his connection to them.

Now, Rumsfeld was gone. But Dean was okay, and Sam... there was still hope for Sam.

With what he was fairly sure was a heavy dose of unrealistic optimism, he told himself he'd reach Sam in time and somehow, _somehow_ , things would turn out alright. Squinting in the bright sun, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressing his foot down onto the accelerator.

"Hold on, kid," he said under his breath, "we're comin' for ya."

* * *

Dean drove all day, straight down the I-29 through Omaha, hooking through Topeka around 4:30pm. For the most part, traffic was thin, and he drove recklessly, making the six and a half hour trip in a little under five.

Castiel was a quiet presence in the passenger seat. They drove without music, without conversation. There were no words that would help, no songs that seemed appropriate.

As they sped out of Topeka, nearing the tiny town of Stull, the tense atmosphere in the car became too much to bear. Castiel reached across the console to rest a hand on Dean's knee, hoping to give some form of comfort, even if words wouldn't allow it.

His touch had the opposite effect.

Dean's hands clenched around the wheel, and he jerked his knee away from Castiel's fingers, the car swerving slightly in the process.

" _Don't_ ," he said through clenched teeth, his voice terse, "don't _touch_ me."

Castiel took his hand back, hurt. He looked at Dean, but the hunter's eyes were fixed firmly on the road. The only thing more apparent on his face than his fear was his anger, and Castiel didn't understand. He had thought, after last night, that physical comfort was something he could offer to the hunter. His brow wrinkled as he spoke quietly.

"I was just-"

"I don't give a damn what you were just doing, Castiel. _Don't_."

The words were blunt, cold, and Castiel felt them like a kick in the chest. Dean hadn't called him Castiel for years, and somehow it sounded hateful, as though he was being pushed away. He stared at his face, trying to comprehend the reason why Dean was suddenly acting as though he had done something wrong.

"Dean," his voice cracked, wavered, and he didn't even know what he wanted to say, only that he couldn't say nothing.

At the sound, Dean glanced away from the road, taking in the wounded, confused expression on Castiel's face. He let out a heavy breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension in them. He swallowed hard and turned back to face the road ahead.

"Dammit, Cas, he just _left_. I didn't even get to say..." he shook his head, voice growing quiet, "he left and I was fucking _sleeping_."

Castiel stared at him, the realization hitting him like a freight train.

Dean felt guilty; as irrational as it was, he thought if he'd been awake he could have stopped Sam from going on his own, and a part of him blamed Castiel for the fact that he had slept so late. A knot formed in Castiel's throat, and not knowing what to say, he stared down at his hands.

He opened his mouth to offer some platitude, but it wouldn't come.

When they arrived at Stull Cemetery twenty silent minutes later it was just in time to see Sam climbing to his feet, his arms outstretched and dripping blood like some obscene mockery of Christ as he tried to fight back against the force of Lucifer's grace.

Dean slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, the engine still running as he rushed toward Sam.

"Sam!" he yelled, "Sammy!"

He had barely taken three steps when the cracks began to form.

* * *

Bobby's old friend, the pilot, didn't need much convincing.

He found him where he'd expected to, midway through a game of cards down at the local watering hole and nursing a rum and coke, hold the rum.

Norm had given up drinking the week Bobby had met him. He'd been in his early thirties back then, and in a drunken stupor he'd let his temper get the better of him. A few poorly chosen words over a game of pool had led to a fight, and his heightened emotional state had been like a beacon. A demon on the prowl for a shiny new meatsuit spotted him from a mile off, and he'd been possessed.

If Bobby hadn't found him and exorcised the demon in time, Norm would've been facing a lot more than a drunk and disorderly charge.

Bobby ran in through the front door of the bar, spotted Norm at a table, and didn't even bother to say hello.

"Norm," he said breathlessly, "I need to cash in that favor."

"Why's that?"

"Gotta stop the apocalypse."

Norm narrowed his eyes, evidently trying to decide if Bobby had lost the plot.

" _Now_ ," said Bobby, and something in his voice convinced the pilot.

"Right," Norm said, laying his hand down on the table as he turned to the men he'd been playing, "I fold."

He got to his feet and followed Bobby, who filled him in as they drove. They were at the airstrip within a quarter of an hour, and when they took off the sky was still free of clouds; an endless azure, bright and clear to the horizon.

Now, though, the plane dipped, lurching violently to the left as lightning flashed across the sky ahead, and Bobby grabbed a hold of the side of his seat, cursing every version of God he could think of for the storm which had rolled in without warning barely ten minutes after they'd taken off.

"Norm?" he said, trying to stop himself from looking out the window at the too-close ground below them, "are we gonna need to land this thing?"

Norm glanced at Bobby and shook his head.

"We'll make it, don't you worry."

As if in direct disagreement with this statement, the Cessna lurched down again, its whole body shaking with the rapidly shifting air pressure outside.

"You sure about that?"

"I've flown in worse."

"Well that's comforting."

Norm shrugged, suddenly loose limbed. He let go of the yoke to stretch his hands up over his head, cracking the bones in his fingers.

"This storm is nothing compared to Hell."

Bobby jerked his head to the side, looking at Norm as the heavy stench of sulphur filled his nostrils. Norm's eyes flicked to black.

"Hi there Bobby," the demon said, its voice lilting and sweet, "you miss me?"

" _Balls_."

"Well, you're just as eloquent as ever."

Bobby weighed his options, and none of them seemed any good. As far as weapons went, he had a plastic bottle of holy oil and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds in a bag in the back, and a flask of holy water in his pocket. The gun was a no-go; if he could even get to it, it was too risky to fire that thing mid-flight, and he couldn't very well incapacitate the demon with holy water when it was flying the damn plane. He tensed in his seat and hoped he'd be able to keep it talking long enough to come up with a decent plan.

"Which bottom-feeding sonofabitch are you, then? I've met so many of you lately I've lost count."

With a click of its tongue, the demon shook its head.

"Wow, surprised I didn't make more of an impression on you," it said in mock offence, "though admittedly this meatsuit isn't my usual style. More parts than I'm used to."

Bobby narrowed his eyes, taking in the demon's snarky manner. After a moment it clicked.

" _Meg_ ," he said, and the demon smirked.

"Bingo! Got it in one, old man."

"What do you want?"

"To save my ass, which, as it turns out, depends on you and your merry little pack of misfits being... hmm," she pursed he lips, "how can I put this delicately? Dead."

Suddenly, Meg grinned, the expression bizarre on Norm's face, and pushed down on the yoke. The plane tipped into a nose dive, and Bobby felt his heart clenching in his chest as he tried desperately to remember the Latin he needed to cast the demon out.

Unsurprisingly, he found that incantations in archaic languages were a little difficult to recall when plummeting from 12,000 feet.

* * *

Before Dean could take another step toward his brother, Sam's fists clenched and his whole body tensed up as though trying to contain a hurricane. Cracks ran along his arms with a sound like a window slowly breaking, and light leaked out through the gaps that formed.

As the light intensified, Dean was knocked down from behind and pinned to the ground, Castiel's arms shielding his eyes from the terrible brightness of Lucifer's grace.

As soon as the light faded he felt Castiel move away, and pushed himself to his feet.

Where Sam had stood seconds before, the grass was wet with blood, scattered with shards of disintegrated bone. Dean screamed his brothers name, looking around helplessly, not allowing himself to believe that what he saw on the ground was real.

He tried to move forward, but Castiel grabbed hold of his arm, stopping him.

"Dean," he pointed ahead, "look."

Laying face down on the grass, about twenty feet from where Sam had been standing, was Lucifer. Or at least, his temporary vessel, Nick.

Nick's hand twitched, and after a moment he reached out, pressing his palms into the earth as he struggled to his feet. He groaned, and then he screamed. _Roared_. The sound was like metal scraping against metal, like wildfire and thunder and unlike anything a human voice should be capable of. As if suddenly aware of Dean and Castiel's presence, he turned his head, and if it hadn't been obvious before that Nick wasn't in the drivers seat, it was now.

Lucifer stared them down, skin crackling like a pig on a spit, the vessel barely containing his grace.

"Big mistake," he said, but he voice wavered as he stepped forward, stumbling slightly.

Instinctively, Castiel moved in front of Dean, and as they watched, the archangel swayed on his feet. Castiel frowned. This made no sense.

Suddenly Lucifer's head jerked to the side, and he tilted his face, recognition in his eyes as he looked beyond a row of graves.

"Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice..." he paused, smirking even as he struggled to remain upright, "and I'll turn your ribcage into a lampshade."

He took a faltering step toward the gravestones, which from where Castiel and Dean were standing, appeared to be utterly lacking in anyone for Lucifer to be addressing.

"Why are you hiding?" he asked, voice too-soft and barely masking the storm of hate that raged beneath it, "Afraid I'm going to-"

There was a sudden flash of white, and Lucifer looked down at the ground before his feet where four rings had landed, stuck together as if magnetized. The earth beneath them began to sink away immediately, revealing a twisting black pit, and he glanced up, looking toward the place where he still seemed to see someone. As he spoke, his expression was somehow smug and disappointed at the same time.

"Not today, brother."

With that, he was gone, lifted away on invisible wings.

* * *

Bobby wasn't sure how long it took for his vocal cords to kick in, but when they did the ground was getting so close he was damn near certain they weren't going to survive. He yelled the words, white knuckles gripping the wall beside him.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii_ -"

Meg reached across to grab at Bobby's throat, trying to stop him from speaking, and Bobby took the opportunity to pull the demon from its seat. It hit the floor and Bobby crouched over it. From his pocket he pulled the flask of holy water, splashing it onto the demons skin as he went on.

"- _omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_."

The Cessna was shuddering. Thick black smoke began to snake from Meg's lips, and Bobby's voice got louder, more desperate as they plummeted toward the earth.

" _Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire_ ," he poured the rest of the holy water directly into the Meg's screaming mouth, " _te rogamus, audi nos._ "

The last of the smoke curled out and Bobby half-crawled to the yoke, pulling it up as hard as he could. After a second, Norm came to his senses and scrambled to his feet, staggering forward to clutch at the controls. He hit buttons and pulled levers, and after a moment the horizon sank as the nose of the plane tilted slowly back up, engines roaring with the effort. Bobby fell back against his seat, panting.

"Jesus Christ," he said, turning to glare at Norm, "why the hell aren't you carrying your anti-possession charm?"

Norm looked at him, his face pale, and shrugged helplessly.

"Guess I left it in my other coat."


	26. The Whole Truth Is Relative

Too late, a wide rift opened up in the earth, churning black and ominous.

From some place deep within it came a cacophony of desperate screams, as though the cage itself was calling out to Lucifer, trying to pull him back in. But he was already gone.

The sound of the archangels wings echoed in Castiel's mind, somehow impossible to ignore despite the screaming.

Dean was still ahead of him, trying with everything he had to stop from looking at the blood and bone on the ground where Sam had been standing moments earlier. The more he tried, the harder it became. His eyes were drawn to it. His thoughts were dominated by a single phrase, repeating over and over until it barely made sense. _So much blood._

Before either man could form a cohesive thought, much less speak, Gabriel emerged from his place behind a row of tall gravestones. He stared down into the abyss that had failed to claim Lucifer, his whole body sagging in defeat.

"No no _no_. Damn it," he ran his hand through his hair, talking to himself, "Sam, I'm so sorry."

Across the cemetery, Dean finally managed to step forward.

"Gabriel?" he asked, fruitlessly attempting to quell the rising panic in his chest, "What happened to Sam?"

Gabriel's eyes grew wide as he turned to face them. He looked startled, as if noticing their presence for the first time. For an instant, his gaze flicked down to the patch of blood-soaked grass where Sam had been standing, and he swallowed hard before looking back up at Dean.

"I'm sorry."

Dean felt his stomach drop.

Suddenly his hands seemed too big, his tongue nothing but a useless lump of meat in his mouth. He stared as Gabriel muttered something in an ancient language, one palm stretched out over the chasm. Slowly it closed up, leaving the grass untouched as though the portal to the most distant corner of hell had never been there, and Gabriel leaned down to scoop the rings into his hand.

Dean watched but did not see, his eyes vacant as he struggled to understand what had happened. Gabriel was apologising as if Sam was... but no. Dean shook his head. _He can't be_ , he thought, _he's fine._

"He was here," Dean insisted, looking back at Castiel with so much hope in his eyes that it nearly broke the ex-angels heart, "right Cas? We saw him."

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice wavering, "I think he..."

Castiel trailed off and stared down at the ground before them. Dean followed his gaze. Among the blood-drenched blades of grass at their feet, a shard of bone stuck out of the earth, a shred of pink flesh clinging to its side.

Dean felt all the air leave his lungs.

He looked back up at Gabriel, standing so casually, rolling the Horsemens' rings in his hand, and a mindless rage grew inside him. Vitriol rose until all he could see was the red of Sam's blood and the dick angel who had let him come here.

"What the hell happened?" he shouted, moving forward with clenched fists, tears that he wouldn't allow to fall stinging in his eyes, "Tell me!"

Gabriel slipped the rings into his pocket and put up his hands.

"I'm sorry, Dean... I don't know."

"Whatd'you mean you don't-" his voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, "How can you not fucking know?"

"Dean."

Dean glanced back and saw Castiel right behind him, wide eyed and stricken, his face trembling as he tried to remain calm. Instinctively, Castiel reached out to him, briefly clamping a hand down on his shoulder. His grip was too tight but Dean barely felt it, all of his senses somehow dulled by grief. After a silence that dragged on too long, he turned to Gabriel. The archangel was pacing, searching as he tried to explain what he could.

"He said yes. But when Luci tried to jump his bones, he explo... well," Gabriel swallowed, his eyes darting away from Dean to the ground as he shook his head.

Dean took a half step forward and found himself on his knees. His face was blank and his breath came heavy and slow as he dug his fingers into the damp earth, Gabriel's voice barely registering any more.

"I really don't understand how this happened."

With closed eyes, Dean tried to calm down, tried to push the feelings down down down where they wouldn't hurt so much. Dirt found its way under his fingernails as his hands clenched of their own accord. Castiel watched him, completely at a loss for what to do, until suddenly a thought flickered through his mind.

He stepped around Dean and addressed Gabriel, his eyes narrowed.

"Sam is Lucifer's true vessel," he said, though his tone asked, _what aren't you telling us_?

Clearly noting the accusation in his brother's voice, Gabriel frowned.

"He was," he agreed, stepping forward almost in challenge, "Sam should have been able to withstand Lucifer's grace... Believe me, there is no way I would have encouraged him to do this if I didn't think he'd be able to pull it off. Regardless of what you might think, I liked the guy."

Dean's jaw twitched, though his gaze didn't shift from the ground.

"Stop doing that," he said through gritted teeth.

"What?"

"Using the past tense."

Gabriel grimaced, glancing around the graveyard.

"Lucifer will have started healing. I'll track him down," he hesitated, looking at Dean with sympathy, "I'm sorry, Dean. I really am."

With that, Gabriel was gone.

The haze of dusk slowly gave way to night, and Stull cemetery grew cold.

* * *

When Bobby and Norm landed in Detroit they expected to find a demonic welcome party. They were disappointed.

Detroit was quiet. _Too quiet_ , Bobby thought. As they made their way through the city, calling various hunters in the area for any possible sign that something was going down, the unease he felt only grew stronger.

Around 6:30, he angrily pressed end on yet another pointless phone call and turned to Norm.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Norm stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth, found himself at a loss and shrugged.

"Yeah," said Bobby, "I guess this means Cas was right about Stull."

"Want to keep looking?"

"Nah, there's nothing here. We should head back."

As they headed out of the city, back to the airport, Norm appeared lost in thought. Crossing the tarmac, he stopped, frowning.

"If there was nothing happening out here for us to stop, then why the mid-air possession?"

Bobby thought back on Meg's bizarre stunt, which had been occupying his mind constantly since they'd touched down, and suppressed a shudder. The whole thing felt off somehow-he knew that had Meg really wanted him dead, she could have done it easily on the plane. He was pretty short on escape routes, and it had taken him a while to get through the exorcism. She could have stabbed him six times over. No, there was definitely something he was missing, and if there was one thing Bobby couldn't stand, it was being short on information. He looked back at Norm and shook his head.

"Beats me."

Settling into his seat on the Cessna, Bobby cleared his throat.

"You mind giving me a quick bit of instruction on how to land this thing? Just in case."

* * *

At some point after nightfall, a band of low clouds had pushed past the horizon, bringing with them an icy wind.

Since Gabriel left, Castiel had been inspecting the fragments of splintered bone and flesh on bloody grass with a churning feeling in his throat like he might vomit at any moment. Repeatedly, he pushed the feeling down. In his gut he knew that what happened didn't add up. With a frown, he paced around the cemetery, searching. Something was wrong. Some tiny piece of information in the back of his mind was trying to make itself known, but he couldn't pin it down.

The graveyard offered no useful information, and finally, he gave up.

He walked back to Dean and held out a hand to help him to his feet.

"Dean," he said, "We should head back. We can figure this out at Bobby's."

Dean didn't move. His cheeks were damp with tears. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came. Castiel knelt on the grass in front of him, holding on to his shoulders.

"Dean," he repeated, his voice quiet as he tried to catch his gaze, "Dean, please. If Lucifer comes back..."

The possibility of Lucifer's return seemed to get through, and Dean nodded. He lifted a hand to grip Castiel's at his shoulder, and squeezed it hard, as if trying to ground himself. After second he tilted his head up and blinked, but Castiel's face refused come into focus. All he saw was a pale oval against the dark sky, a mouth that seemed to move out of time with the words he was hearing.

"We'll think of something."

Castiel knew he sounded helpless, desperate. He knew that Dean would recognise the note of doubt in his voice, just as Castiel had heard it in Dean's when he had said the same thing to him about finding his grace. It seemed so long ago, but it hadn't even been a week.

For a moment, Castiel expected him to lash out again, but instead Dean just let out a ragged breath and nodded, blinking against the silent tears that refused to stop flowing. With his thumb, Castiel wiped them from his face and Dean closed his eyes and leant into the pressure, a heavy breath escaping his mouth. Castiel leant forward and caught Dean's lips with his, a soft kiss that said all of the things he couldn't find words for.

"We have to go, Dean."

With another nod Dean stood and Castiel dropped his hand to Dean's back, leading him toward the car. Dean moved as if in a trance, and Castiel stopped, suddenly unsure as he watched him walk unsteadily to the still-open door. He had a feeling that letting Dean drive in this state might be a bad idea.

"Will you be-"

"I'll be okay," Dean said, his voice smaller than Castiel had ever heard it.

"I'd offer to drive, but..."

Castiel trailed off, shrugging lamely. With one hand on the door, Dean looked back at him.

"It's okay," he said, "Thanks, Cas."

* * *

If he stared at the phone any harder, Bobby was pretty sure it was going to burst into flames.

He'd arrived back at the house hours ago, half-expecting to see the Impala sitting in the driveway, or failing that, at least a message on his cell or the answering machine in the kitchen. Of course, he'd found none of them, and he mentally kicked himself for getting his hopes up.

He told himself no news was good news, and stopped himself from calling in case a ringing phone gave away Dean's position, or worse, he answered and the news was bad after all.

So he sat in the kitchen and waited, fingers twitching uselessly in his impatience.

Hours went by as he stared at the phone, willing it to ring, willing Sam to be the one on the other end, saying, _we did it Bobby! We kicked his ass!_

"Come on, boys" he muttered to himself, "we're due for a win."

* * *

Dean switched on the radio as they passed through Topeka, searching through the stations until he landed on one that claimed to be the _top spot for soft rock_. He turned the volume down low and gripped the wheel, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead as Michael Stipe sang about old photographs and swimming in the moonlight.

In the passenger seat, Castiel was deep in thought, certain there was some loophole that they were missing, some way that things might still work out. As much as he wanted to stop himself, he couldn't seem to quell the glimmer of hope that grew within. He didn't mention it to Dean.

The last thing he wanted was to inflict the pain of hope on him.

The quiet between them was heavy, but it lacked the undercurrent of anger that had filled the car earlier. This time it was a silence born of grief. As they drove on, Castiel's hand found its way to Dean's knee, and whenever he wasn't shifting gears, Dean's hand would join it.

The soft press of fingers made it easier; not by much, but it was something.

When they finally arrived back in Sioux Falls, they sat in the car for a full minute.

A light was on inside, and Dean stared up at the house, knowing full well that as soon as Bobby saw his face he was going to _know_ , and no way in hell was he ready to handle that. He glanced across at Castiel, who half smiled and gave his hand another quick squeeze before letting go and opening his door.

No sooner than had he closed it behind him, Dean turned the key in the ignition and threw the car into reverse.

"Dean!"

He stopped for a moment, looking out the windscreen at Castiel's shocked face.

"Sorry, Cas."

Without another pause he turned the car and sped out of the driveway, leaving Castiel in the dark yard.

Soon he was just a pair of tail lights on the road.

* * *

Dean drove for miles without any idea where he was going.

Eventually he found himself on a narrow dirt road along side an open field. He followed it for twenty minutes, then pulled over beside a lone oak tree and sat in silence, staring out into the darkness.

The field put him in mind of one year when Sam was just a kid, setting off fireworks that lit up the sky and reflected bright in Sammy's eyes. There weren't enough memories like it. A few good days in an endless stream of awful ones, and try as he might to keep hold of the sight of Sam smiling, his thoughts spiralled. He saw his brothers whole life as though it had been circling a drain, each moment tarnished because it had led to this.

Soon, all he could picture was Sam leaking light from his cracked skin, all he could hear was Sam screaming in agony. Though he hadn't seen the moment when he had truly gone, his imagination, traitorous as it was, filled in the blanks, showing him in full color what it looked like as Sam burst at the seams, exploding into a mist of blood and white light.

His stomach turned and he pressed his eyes closed, wishing he had something to drink, something to take this feeling away. Hours passed before his cell phone rang. He ignored it, once, twice, then switched it off, shoving it into the glove compartment alongside the fake ID's he and Sam had used on their last hunt.

His hand paused, hovering over one of the cards. Sam's face looked out at him, smiling in a suit and tie, and Dean found it difficult to breathe.

Not for the first time since Stull, he considered finding a crossroads. He took a deep breath and picked up the ID, wedging it in the visor.

He didn't realise he was driving again until he reached the intersection.

* * *

When he realized that Dean wasn't coming back any time soon, Castiel walked inside, heading toward the only light in the house. As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bobby was on his feet, desperate for news.

"What happened?"

Castiel paused, hating to be the bearer of bad tidings, but knowing he had no choice.

"We were too late."

"God _damnit_."

Bobby's whole body seemed to sink in on itself, and he leaned heavily on a chair back as Castiel went on.

"He... Sam said yes, but he couldn't contain..." Castiel swallowed, looking down at the floor so as to avoid seeing the pain on Bobby's face, "Lucifer destroyed him."

There was silence for a moment, followed by a drawn out breath. Bobby glanced up at Castiel with a frown.

"Where's Dean?"

"I don't know," he tried not to sound bitter about it, and failed, "We got here and he just... he left. He didn't say where he was going."

Bobby sat down, and Castiel slumped into the seat opposite him. Neither knew what to do, much less what to say. After a half hour of silence, Bobby got up, went to the cupboard and pulled out a dusty old bottle. He wiped the neck, unscrewed the cap and tipped a generous amount into two chipped glasses. He handed one to Castiel.

"To Sam," he said, raising it as he gestured for Castiel to do the same, "he should never have gone like that."

Bobby downed his whole drink in one go, and Castiel followed suit, feeling the pleasant warmth spread through his chest. As he considered Bobby's toast, he sat up straighter in his chair, face alight with sudden clarity.

"No, Bobby. He should never have gone like _that_. I knew there was something off about this!"

Bobby sat up straighter, eyeing the angel with a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"He _exploded_."

Bobby flinched, but Castiel was up on his feet, mind working a mile a minute, and he didn't notice.

"Sam was Lucifer's _true vessel_. That's big, that's important. No matter what, the whole point of a true vessel is that it is literally made for the angel it is meant for. We are talking thousands upon thousands of years preparation in order for the right bloodline to result in the right person."

Cluing in to what Castiel was saying, Bobby leaned forward, his elbows on the table as Castiel went on.

"What's more, we know that Sam had ingested demon blood in preparation, which strengthens a vessel... but even without it Lucifer should have been able to merge into him with ease. The only reason a vessel would ever explode like that is if... oh. _Oh_."

Castiel stared at Bobby, his eyes bright.

"Bobby, I think that Sam may still be alive."

"How? You said he explo..." Bobby gulped, not wanting to say the words, "you said he was gone."

"No, that wasn't Sam. At least, I don't think it was. I think... I think this might all be part of Gabriel's plan somehow. Make Lucifer think that he has destroyed his true vessel. No true vessel, no battle, no apocalypse. And it weakened him, trying to enter a vessel without permission... he's lucky _he_ didn't explode."

"Well, if that wasn't Sam, then who was it? And where is he?"

"I have no idea."

Bobby leaned back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.

"Well that just puts us right back at bupkus."

He pulled the bottle back toward himself, tipping a couple more fingers of scotch into his glass. As he swallowed, there was the sound of wings, followed by a loud sigh.

They both turned to find Gabriel standing in the kitchen, his arms crossed.

"I hope the two of you don't have any problem with lying to Dean about this. We'd been counting on an honest performance from him. It's our only real chance at sending Luci back downstairs."

Castiel glared at him with distrust.

"What did you do?"

Gabriel leaned back against the counter and cracked his knuckles.

"Don't sound so suspicious, Cas."

"Tell me, Gabriel."

He shrugged.

"Nothing too nefarious, no need to get snippy," Gabriel raised a brow at Castiel, waiting for him to stop glaring before he continued, "Just a little trickery. Honestly, it was so easy I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner."

Glancing at the counter-top, Gabriel noticed a bag of liquorice allsorts. He gestured toward it, addressing Bobby.

"You mind?"

"If it'll help you finish the damn story, knock yourself out."

Gabriel grinned, ripping the bag open and pulling out a handful. He crammed one into his mouth, chewing as he spoke.

"An empty vessel wasn't hard to find. Just had to hang around the ICU for a half hour and bingo! Grabbed it as the soul was leaving. Siphoned a little of Sam's own essence in there-"

Bobby's face twitched in shock.

"-relax, Grandpa, it wasn't much. Just enough that Lucifer would feel it. Had to make it as real as possible or he wouldn't have bought it. Then it was just a matter of a little illusion and hey presto, we had a walking talking jolly green doppelganger. A little smack talk, a big juicy yes delivered with the voice-throwing skills of yours truly, and Lucifer tried to push his way in."

Understanding, Castiel sat up straighter. Bobby just frowned.

"But why would he explode?"

"There's a reason we need an invitation," Gabriel explained, "an angel tries to enter a vessel without their consent... well. If they're lucky the vessel is destroyed. If they're _not_ , which is almost always the case, they get stuck inside and destroyed right along with it."

"So Lucifer...?"

Gabriel sighed, shaking his head.

"He was lucky. But he's weakened."

"So Sam was in on all this? Where is he now?" Castiel asked.

"Yes, he was, but I can't tell you where he is... plausible deniabilty," he frowned, "sorry. I can tell you he is okay though."

Their relief was so strong it was almost palpable, the atmosphere of the room lightening instantly. If Gabriel noticed, it wasn't obvious. He searched through the bag of allsorts, pulling out all the green ones. After a moment he looked up again.

"He is a little spent; severing even the smallest amount of a mortal soul is just about a ten-thousand on the one-to-ten pain scale, but he's okay. I'm about to go back to him now... but first..."

He turned to Castiel.

"We need Dean to believe that Sam is really gone... revenge is just about the only thing that'll motivate him."

"Motivate him to what?"

"To say yes to Michael."

Castiel was on his feet at once, staring Gabriel down as though he'd forgotten how powerless he was. Even without his grace, all the wrath of heaven rained down on the archangel in the form of Castiel's fury.

"Are you _joking_?" he demanded, "after all this, you're going to try to make him say yes? Does Sam know about this part of the plan?"

Gabriel sighed.

"Calm down, Castiel. Hear me out."

Castiel didn't look any calmer, but he kept his mouth closed. He breathed heavily through flaring nostrils, his teeth tightly clenched. Gabriel put down the bag, suddenly completely serious.

"Lucifer's vessel is burning away, even more so now that he doesn't have the energy to heal, and on top of that his grace took a beating when he tried to force his way into the doppelganger. He is vulnerable. He is _weak_. If Dean says yes to Michael now, Lucifer will be destroyed. The fight will be over in no time flat because Lucifer _cannot fight_ in this state. Why do you think he bailed the way he did? He could have popped up right behind me and taken me out, but he flew away."

Castiel considered this. After a moment he returned to his seat and looked up at Gabriel, troubled. Sensing his uncertainty, Gabriel crossed the room. He sank down onto his heels.

"Cas, this really is the best chance we have. Lucifer will be destroyed. Michael will return to heaven. Dean will survive. Sam will survive. More importantly, the _planet_ will survive. Everybody wins," he shrugged, "well, almost everybody. I doubt Luci is going to be feeling too peppy by the end of it."

Hesitantly, Castiel allowed a small nod. He looked over at Bobby, who was watching him for some sign of whether or not this was a good idea.

"I... I think it might work."

"You sure this isn't going to melt Dean's melon? Last I heard, Raphael's vessel was wearing an adult diaper and drooling all over himself."

Gabriel glanced at the hunter, answering before Castiel had a chance.

"It's possible there could be... damage. But nothing irreversible. The amount of time Michael would actually be with him is unlikely to be longer than an hour. At worst, he'll need a little therapy. But it's not like he doesn't need that already."

Bobby stared at the empty glass in his hand, took the lid off the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He downed it in one go and looked back up at Gabriel.

"I don't know about Cas here, but I'm a helluva shitty liar when it comes to people I care about. If this is gonna happen, I need you to go ahead and wipe this whole thing right outta my head. You can do that, right?"

"Bobby-"

"No, Cas. I won't be able to look that kid in the eye if I know this. I can't know that Sam's alive and not tell him," he looked back at Gabriel, "go on. Brain bleach me."

Gabriel stepped forward, raising his hand.

"Alright," he said, "see you on the other side."

* * *

When Bobby shuffled upstairs to bed, Castiel called Dean. It rang out twice. On his third try it didn't even ring. A crackly echo of Dean's voice answered as soon as he had finished dialling.

_This is Dean's other, other cell, so you must know what to do._

At the high-pitched beep, Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to alleviate the ache in his head. He was tired, and worried, and angry. Dean had been gone hours. The message he left was brief, his tone a little more aggressive than he had intended.

"Dean, where are you? Answer your damn phone."

When Dean finally pulled back into the driveway some time after four, Castiel was still wide awake, waiting. He had been growing steadily angrier with the hunter with every passing moment, and now he was fuming.

From his place on the sofa, he saw the headlights of the Impala splash over the wall of the library. Relief and anger mingled at the sight, and he was outside before Dean had even climbed out of the drivers seat.

"Where did you go?"

"What are-"

"Where the _hell_ were you, Dean?"

Dean stood up and slammed the door behind him, already defensive.

"Nowhere. What's your problem?"

"My _problem_?" Castiel scoffed, rolling his eyes, "My problem is that for all I know you were out there making a deal to try and bring him back, or I don't know what, and I know I'm no use to you now, I know I can't help you any more but damn it, Dean, he was my family too, and Bobby's, and you just left me here to deal with it _alone_. You're not the only one who lost a brother today-"

At that, Dean's shoulders sagged and Castiel bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself.

"I'm sorry, that was insensitive, I-"

"No, no you're right, Cas," Dean shook his head, "I'm acting like an asshole. Again. I just... I don't know what to do, man. Sammy's... this wasn't meant to happen."

Castiel took a deep breath.

"I was just worried. You didn't... you didn't make a deal, did you?"

"To be honest, I considered it... but no."

Dean reached over and grasped Castiel by the elbow, pulling him close.

"I wouldn't do that, not again. I learned my lesson. Believe me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you here."

Castiel relaxed a little as Dean wound his arms around him.

"It's okay, just please don't run off again."

"I wont," he said quietly, "I think this is what I needed, anyway."

"What?"

"You."

"Oh."

Dean sighed against Castiel's shoulder, holding on tightly.

"Shit," Dean said after a while, rubbing a hand over his eyes, "this is so royally fucked up."

Castiel hummed in wordless agreement, and as they stood together in the scrap yard, a feeling like there was something he needed to tell him weighed heavy in Castiel's chest. It was something important. Something he'd forgotten. He rubbed soothing circles into Dean's back. The feeling didn't fade, but it didn't become any clearer.

Whatever it was, he figured it could wait.


	27. Into The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the ridiculously long wait between chapters--due to work commitments and personal issues I haven't been around for a while. I'll be returning to a fairly regular update schedule now. Thanks for sticking around.
> 
> ~ Imogen

Bobby's house seemed too big without Sam in it.  
  
Dean knew the feeling was absurd, given how many times he had been in the house without his brother, but reason held no sway and he felt it regardless. Even from outside, he looked up at the dusty windows and couldn't help but picture Sam standing inside. Sam sitting on the back step. Sharpening a knife. Cleaning the Colt. Tying his shoes. Sam in the yard, so many years ago, gangly and awkward and covered in mud, playing with the dog that was his no matter what their Dad had said.  
  
As he stepped over the threshold into the hallway, he saw a pair of his brothers boots by the door and the loss hit him all over again.  
  
Although Castiel's care--like the long drive--had done him good, it hadn't fixed anything. It couldn't. Nothing could. Sam was still gone.  
  
As far as Dean was concerned, his whole purpose for existing was to look out for his little brother. With Sam gone, he was struggling to see the point.  
  
Still, he let Castiel usher him upstairs and into bed. In the dark it was easy to ask Castiel to climb in beside him again, and he lay with his back to him, drawing in his warmth. He felt the tentative weight of Castiel's arm draped over his waist and pulled it more tightly around him, silently demanding a sense of security he could never ask for out loud, and Castiel obliged.  
  
Even so, sleep was elusive.  
  
Castiel's thumb running softly over his wrist was a small comfort, but one that he was infinitely grateful for. If it weren't for him, Dean knew that he probably would have tried to make a deal to bring Sam back. A little part of him still wanted to. He pushed the thought away. Nothing good would come of it.  
  
He tried to let the steady rhythm of Castiel's breath lull him, tried to focus on the sensation of warm breath tickling the back of his neck, but his mind refused to stop working.  
  
Each time his eyes closed he saw the blood-soaked earth. When he opened them he saw the wall that, as a child, Sam had scratched their names into. His messy scrawl was probably still there, down near the floor.  
  
Memories of his brother were everywhere. It was inescapable.  
  
Eventually, he saw the sunrise painting the room in gold, and gave up.  
  
Dean pushed himself out of bed, careful not to wake Castiel, and made his way back down to the kitchen where he sat with his head in his hands, thumbs pressing hard against his temples. A tension headache had been coming on slow, building all night and getting worse with every passing hour, and now it was at its peak. Sharp and pounding behind his eyes. He was so preoccupied with the steady thrum of pain that he didn't even hear the angels shifting wings.

"Dean."

Startled, he looked up. Standing in the corner of the room, Gabriel looked at him with a combination of pity and regret. Dean had to remind himself that punching an Archangel would result in nothing but a shattered wrist. It was still tempting.

"If you're here to apologize, don't bother."

His voice was wrecked, betraying his exhaustion, and he cleared his throat. He had no energy for this. Gabriel stared down at him, that look on his face getting more irritating than Dean would have thought possible, and soon he couldn't take it any more. He let his head sink back down into his hands and shut his eyes. His words came out muffled and small.

"So are you just going to stare at me all day, or--?"

A chair scraped across the floor, and he felt the table wobble under his hands. He glanced back up to see Gabriel sitting down opposite him, wringing his hands. Dean straightened up to look at him with narrowed eyes. Something was definitely up, and considering the past twenty-four hours, it was nothing good.

"Spit it out."

Gabriel drummed his fingers over the table top.

"I would, but you look like you're thinking about punching me, and I don't think I can stand to watch you break your knuckles," he gestured at Dean's downcast expression, "you know, considering."

Dean rubbed his hand over his eyes.

"Point taken."

For a moment, Gabriel just watched him, and if Dean didn't know any better, he'd say he looked guilty. He was on the verge of asking what he had done when Gabriel spoke.

"You didn't sleep last night."

  
"No shit."

  
Gabriel smirked.

"You Winchester's always did have a way with words."

The look Dean leveled him with could have burnt a hole through the wall, and Gabriel grimaced.

"Sorry."

 

"Just tell me why you're here." Dean said with a shake of his head.

  
Gabriel eyed his still-clenched fists, and Dean flattened his palms against the table with purpose.

"I won't punch you," he said, trying for a grin though his heart wasn't in it, "scout's honor."

After a moments consideration, Gabriel's expression softened somewhat.

"Just... let me explain the whole thing before you flip out. Deal?"

Dean was pretty sure that if he needed to promise not to lose it he wasn't going to like what Gabriel was going to say, but even so, he nodded. If it got rid of him sooner rather than later it was fine by him. Still, Gabriel paused, apparently trying to decide whether or not he believed him, then huffed out a breath and spoke quickly.

"Alright. I think, that given Lucifer's current state, now would be an opportune time for you to say yes to Michael--"

Dean cut him off, furious, his hands tensing back into fists on the table.

"No fucking way--"

  
"Let. Me. _Finish_."

Dean gritted his teeth and glared, but sank back in his seat. He stared down at his hands, the muscles flexing involuntarily. Gabriel waited for him to look back up before he continued.

"Lucifer is crippled right now, and I believe that Michael would be able to destroy him without a fight."

 

"What, you reckon he's just gonna roll over?" Dean asked with a derisive snort, rolling his eyes.

Gabriel leaned toward him over the table.

  
"Lucifer is in no shape to resist. Until he regains his strength, which, judging by how he looked yesterday will be at least a day from now, he won't be able to block a single blow from Michael."

 

Dean frowned.

"It'll be over like that," Gabriel clicked his fingers, "the planet will be spared, and you'll have your body back within the hour."

  
Dean stared at the grain of the table top, resenting Gabriel for making sense. He wondered if this was how the archangel had convinced Sam to go off on his own, and something in his expression must have betrayed the thought, because Gabriel leaned forward over the table, dropping his voice to that placid tone he rarely used.

"Listen, Dean," Gabriel said, "I'm not going to try and twist your arm. If you don't want to do this, you don't want to do it. I can't force you."

He shrugged.

  
"I just think it's the best chance any of us have. Sam's sacrifice weakened him."

At the mention of his brother's name, Dean flinched, and Gabriel laid his hands out on the table, imploring him to listen.

"It would be such a waste to ignore this opportunity."

  
"And why should I believe you?" Dean asked, "You've lied before."

  
"This isn't some game, Dean. This is literally the end of the world as we know it, and it's pretty clear that if we don't do something soon it's going to get real messy. This past year is going to look like a trip to Disneyland if Lucifer doesn't get sent back downstairs."  
  
"Even if I trust you--and I'm not saying I do--what about Michael?"  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"Can I trust him?"  
  
"Give him conditions. Michael will keep his word."

"Hmmph."

  
"This is a solid plan, Dean. What would Sam want you to do?"

Gabriel stood up and looked out the window. It was a clear day.

"You should do it today. In the meantime, try to get some sleep."

In the shift of the sunlight filtering through the curtain, Gabriel was gone. Dean let out a heavy breath.

 

The thought of saying yes put an awful twisting feeling in his gut, but the more he considered it, the more viable Gabriel's plan seemed. Sure, there was the chance that the whole thing would go pear-shaped, but why should he suddenly start expecting things to come easy? It was say yes now and stop Lucifer before he could do any real damage to the world at large, or wait for him to grow in strength and set the planet on fire.  
  
Every way he looked at it, it was clear. It had to be done. For Sam. For everyone. He leaned his forehead back down on the table, and despite the awkward angle of his neck and the uncomfortable chair he sat on, Dean fell asleep.

* * *

  
It was late afternoon when he woke, stiff-necked and groggy with one side of his face stuck to a patch of old ketchup on Bobby's kitchen table. The sun was blinding, and he blinked as he yawned, waiting for the spots to fade.  
  
For a moment he wondered why he was sleeping in the kitchen instead of in a bed or the back of the Impala, and then it all came back. Sam. Suddenly the ache in his bones was nothing compared to the pit in his stomach, the knot in his throat, the breaths that didn't want to come fast enough.  
  
He wondered if it would hurt this badly every time he woke up and remembered, wondered how long it would take to forget, and immediately felt like a prick for even thinking it. He should never forget. It should never stop hurting. He didn't want it to.  
  
Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders, cracking the bones. The heady smell of something rich and stimulating hit his nose and he glanced around the kitchen to find Castiel standing at the counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. He heard Dean yawning and looked down at him.

"Would you like some?"

  
Dean stretched his arms up over his head, feeling his joints pop as he spoke.

"That depends. Who taught you how to make coffee?"

Castiel smiled, pouring a second cup.

  
"Bobby."

  
Dean nodded and yawned again as Castiel sat down opposite him, handing him a mug. He breathed in the steam and sipped. The coffee was hot--far _too_ hot--and bitter as hell, but it was still better than half the coffee Bobby had ever made him, and that was worth something. And Castiel was trying to help; that was worth even more. He fought off his grimace as it burned in his throat and managed a small smile.

"Thanks, Cas."

  
Castiel nodded, his eyes warm. He fidgeted a little.

"Are you hungry?"

Dean opened his mouth to say no, not particularly keen on whatever monstrosity Bobby had half-taught him to make, but when he saw the hopeful expression on Castiel's face he bit back the words and nodded. Castiel went to the fridge and came back with a sandwich almost instantly. Dean raised his brow.

"One you prepared earlier?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay then."

Castiel sat back down as he took a bite, watching for his reaction. Dean lifted a corner of the bread to look inside as he chewed.

"What's in it?"  
  
"Green apple and cheese."

Dean nodded and took another bite, speaking through a mouthful.

  
"It's good."

Castiel beamed.

"Bobby told me it was a strange combination, but I think it might be my favorite."

  
Dean put down the sandwich and drummed his fingers over the surface of the table.  
  
He stared down.

"Cas?"  
  
"Yes, Dean?"  
  
"I'm thinking about saying yes to Michael."

Castiel's eyes grew wide.

"Dean, please, I told you--"  
  
"I know, I know, just wait. Listen," he reached out over the table to where Castiel's hands had tensed around his own coffee mug and smoothed his fingers over the knuckles, "Please?"

Castiel quieted, and Dean explained all that Gabriel had told him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel felt a nagging sensation that he knew all of this, that there was something else connected to it, something important. Whatever it was, he couldn't place it. He listened to Dean reason, and found that a lot of what Gabriel had told him made sense.

"So, do you think I should I do it?"

Castiel raised his eyebrows, surprised at being asked. Dean wasn't exactly big on discussing things, and definitely not when it was about Sam. Dean didn't ask permission. Ever.  
  
 _But things are different now_ , Castiel realized, _he is asking you if it's okay_.  
  
Dean stared down at his hands.

  
"I just... I don't know. If I do this, if I can stop it all, then maybe Sammy didn't die for nothing, you know?"

Castiel thought it over.

  
"I think..." he frowned, "I think it is our best chance. But Dean, if you carry his grace within yourself for too long..."

Castiel trailed off, concern lining his face.

  
"Well. You saw Raphael's vessel."

Nodding, Dean turned his mug of coffee around in his hands.

"But it shouldn't take long, right? Lucifer's basically neutered right now, and as long as I make sure Michael agrees to my terms I should have the reins back pretty quick. Worst case scenario, it'll be a couple of hours, right?"

"Right. But even a couple of hours is dangerous, Dean. Michael is an Archangel, far greater than Raphael. He is one of the most powerful beings in all of creation."

"So I could end up a vegetable anyway?"  
  
"No... not exactly. Not in such a short time. But you could go mad."  
  
"Already there, Cas."

Castiel allowed him a small smile.

"I suppose you're right about that."

Dean took another bite of his sandwich and put it down. Castiel watched him, saw the familiar set in his shoulders that told him he had made a decision, and felt a twist in his stomach not unlike what he had felt as his soul formed.

"You're going to do it, aren't you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"When?"  
  
"No time like the present."  
  
"You should say goodbye to Bobby. Just in case."

Dean gulped down the last of his sandwich, feeling it lodge in his throat. Castiel's eyes had glossed over a little. Dean stood up and moved to the other side of the table, leaning down to kiss him. Castiel sighed, bringing up one hand to hold Dean to him for a moment, and Dean closed his eyes.

"I'm not worried, Cas."  
  
"I know. That's what I'm concerned about."

Castiel smiled weakly at him and stood up, walking out of the kitchen.

"Come on," he called, "We'll need to draw some sigils to counteract the ones on your ribs, or he won't be able to find you."

 

* * *

  
In hindsight, he thought that perhaps he shouldn't have come alone.  
  
Once Castiel had explained the sigils to him, Dean had decided that Bobby's place was not a good location to call down Michael, especially if Lucifer turned up to fight him. There were too many obstacles, for one, and beyond that, if Lucifer managed to put up any kind of fight he didn't want it to destroy the house. The woods beyond Bobby's yard were vast, and he thought that if he walked far enough it should be safe. So he'd memorised the sigils, argued with Castiel over his decision to go alone, been cursed at by Bobby over _the whole rotten plan_ , which apparently _stank like a week-dead hog_ , and then set out on foot into the thick trees.  
  
After a solid hour and a half, he reached a wide clearing, and figured it was far enough away from any form of civilization to work.  
  
He took his knife from his waistband and ran it across his palm, where the skin was criss-crossed with scars. Blood ran freely, and he made his way around the clearing, painting the sigils onto the trunks of trees with his fingertips. Finally, he pulled open his shirt, painting the complex pattern onto his chest.  
  
Turning his face to the sky, Dean closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

 _Here goes nothing,_ he thought.  
  
"Michael!" he screamed, "my answer is yes!"

 


	28. Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are still reading, thank you for sticking around. I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, but you know how it is when real life comes along and demands your attention. There are two (possibly three) chapters to go, and then I can get started on the next multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Thanks for your comments and kudos, it means a lot to me <3
> 
> ~ Imogen

Sitting on the edge of his bed in a garishly decorated beach side cabin, Sam looked out at the crystal blue ocean and frowned. If anyone had ever told him he'd be dying to get out of Tahiti, he wouldn't have believed them.  
  
He'd slept for a solid day and a half after Gabriel had siphoned off a sliver of his soul and left him here, and though he was still bone-tired, he was almost back to normal.  
  
The bad part was, he was awake enough now to be edgy. He hated it, sitting there, waiting. He was itching to get out of the room, to get back to Sioux Falls and put his brother out of his misery.  
  
When Gabriel had returned briefly a few hours earlier, he had told Sam that Dean bought it. That he believed he was dead. That he was going to say yes.  
  
And, sure, that was the plan. But damn did he feel guilty.  
  
All things considered, it _was_ the best plan anyone had managed to come up with--none of the good guys would end up dead or in Hell, so he figured that Dean would forgive him eventually--but in the meantime he felt like absolute shit.  
  
The heat was sweltering, and he pulled at his collar as he looked out at the brightly colored bird that had just landed on the railing of his private balcony. The whole place was too damn cheery, and he found himself absently wishing Gabriel had left him somewhere a little less obnoxious.  
  
He stood up and yanked the curtains shut.  
  
He was trying to brood.   
  
This whole tropical paradise thing was making it difficult.

* * *

  
While Castiel paced, occasionally stopping to stare out the window towards the woods, Bobby sat in quiet contemplation. A frown shadowed his tired face as he fixed his eyes on the open book before him.  
  
The book was old--though frankly, that went without saying in a house like his--and what information the author had neglected to include had been added to the margins in black ink. The handwriting was new and unfamiliar; not Dean's small, harsh capitals or Sam's loose scrawl. This print was even and neat, and as Bobby turned a page, he noticed a tiny Enochian symbol in the corner. He ran a thumb over it and looked up at Castiel.

"This your signature?"

Castiel stopped pacing and approached the desk, tilting his head to better see. Recognising his own writing, he nodded.

"The book was technically accurate in parts, but many of the rituals were inefficient, to say the least. I thought you might benefit from a more straightforward approach."

When he got no response, he continued, pointing at the open page.

"This summoning spell, in particular, has a few extraneous ingredients listed, and a number of the incantations were altogether unnecessary. Leaving them out saves time," he shrugged, trying for a smile, "I know that's always in short supply around here."

  
Bobby closed the book and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his chin. He looked exhausted, the flecks of gray in his beard aging him far less than the weary look in his eyes. Castiel watched him with concern.

"Are you alright, Bobby?"

Bobby blinked a couple of times and shook his head.

  
"Of course I'm not."

He pulled his hat from his head, absently bending the brim between his hands.

"I've barely had five minutes to..." his shoulders sank as he shook his head again, "Christ, Sam deserved better than that."

  
Castiel sat down on the edge of the coffee table. He agreed.  
  
The fact that Lucifer was still out there despite Sam's sacrifice just added insult to injury. Castiel watched as Bobby struggled to hold himself together.

  
"He was like a son to you."

  
"Yeah," Bobby smiled; it was a broken thing, "Yeah, he was."

Absently, Bobby thumbed the cover of the book before him. Even without his lost ability to see into souls, Castiel saw clearly on his face what he was thinking.

  
"There was nothing you could have done."  
  
"I don't know... I still feel like there's something else, something we missed," his brow furrowed, "when I flew to Detroit, Meg turned up."

Castiel was on his feet immediately.

"Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Kind of stopped being a priority once I got back."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"She possessed Norm. Stupid sonofabitch didn't have his anti-possession charm on him. Tried to steer us into the ground. She nearly did it, too. If I hadn't exorcised her in time, we'd have been a sad story on the 6 o'clock news."

Castiel shook his head. There was something wrong with the whole thing.

"Why would she--?"  
  
"She just said she was trying to 'save her own ass'. But something just didn't sit right... I mean, if she wanted to kill me, there's plenty of easier ways than murder-by-plane-crash."  
  
"Maybe killing you wasn't the plan."  
  
"Yeah," Bobby said, drumming the desk, "But I'll be damned if I can work out what she did want."  
  
"Did anything else happen when you got to Detroit?"  
  
"It was quiet. And I mean _quiet_. Like someone had gone through and cleaned up the place. I'd bet my left one that Meg had something to do with it."  
  
"Your left what?"

Bobby ignored the question and pulled his hat back on as he pushed himself up from his place behind the desk. He look out toward the trees. Castiel moved to stand beside him.   
  
They stood like that a while, silently staring out into the growing darkness. Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice quiet.

 

"He'll be cast down soon."

With a sidelong glance, Bobby nodded.

  
"I just hope Michael makes it _hurt_."  
  
"As do I."

Somewhere deep in his chest, Castiel felt a wave of shame at his hasty reply. Wishing pain on his brother, even if that brother was Lucifer, was not something that rested comfortably on his conscience. He nearly felt guilty about it until he remembered what was left of Sam at Stull, the look on Dean's face when he had realized his brother was gone, the sound of his too-measured breaths as he tried to hold it together and sleep, and thought, _I wish I could do it myself._

"How much longer do you think it'll be?"

"It's been two hours so far. If he hasn't already summoned Michael, he'll be doing it soon. Maybe another three hours. Maybe a little less."

Not knowing was the worst part.

"He'd better be careful."

 

"He will," Castiel replied, raising his chin, "he promised."

  
His voice was firm, resolute, and a lot more confident than he really felt. Castiel looked back outside, his throat clicking as he swallowed. Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze.

"Come on, lets have some coffee. Staring out the window isn't going to bring him back any faster."

  
As Bobby left, walking into the kitchen, Castiel's eyes flickered to the book on the desk.   
  
He had faith in Dean, but it was always worthwhile to have a back up plan.

 

* * *

  
Dean screamed for Michael with everything he had.

 

A minute passed, then two, and nothing happened. Dean felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

 

"Yes!" he shouted again, "You hear me, Michael? I said yes!"

 

"Don't be disheartened, Dean. He never answers me, either, and I'm his brother."

  
The voice came out of nowhere, and Dean jerked his head back down. Lucifer, his vessel blistered and barely holding together, leaned against a tree. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"And speaking of brothers..." Lucifer spread his hands, out, looking around with a raised brow, "Where's yours? Not that I'm unhappy to see you, but I'd much rather the tall one."

 

Dean narrowed his eyes, feeling the rage of his brothers death bubbling up in his chest.

"Wow, your brains get scrambled back there in Lawrence? You killed him, you son of a bitch."  
  
"If he was dead, I'd be able to locate his soul. But I cannot. Therefore, he is not."

Hope flared up, and Dean tried to quell it.

 _It's a trick_ , he told himself, _he's trying to get your guard down_.

  
He stood up a little straighter, gripping the knife in his hand. It was useless against the devil, that he knew, but at least it was something. Whether it killed the junkless bastard or not, it'd sure feel good to stab him in the face.

"You can cut the crap, Bedazzled. I'm not that stupid."

With a mirthless laugh, Lucifer shook his head.

  
"Come now. I think we both know that's not true. I don't know what that was at the cemetery, but it wasn't your brother. If you thought you could fool--"

Lucifer stopped, watching the look of confusion on Dean's face and pushed himself away from the tree, frowning. His brow raised as he realized Dean was telling the truth. 

"You really don't know where he is?" He spoke softly, almost with pity, "that's... unfortunate."

  
Dean's grip on the knife's hilt tightened. There was something in the devils voice that made him believe he was telling the truth. Sam was out there somewhere. Sam was alive. Try as he might, he couldn't push the hope away, even as Lucifer advanced on him. 

  
And then, in the space between one second and the next, he heard a voice, something akin to the resonance of a struck bell and the call of a great bird mingling together in perfect harmony. There were words in a language as old as time if not older, and though he had no idea what the words were he understood their meaning as clearly as if it had been in English. 

_I am the Archangel Michael. Will you accept me, Dean Winchester?_

 

Dean had a list of demands a mile long, conditions that he wanted to lay out in advance, but in that moment they all left his mind. Sam was alive, somewhere, and if he didn't say yes now he might never find him. He didn't know whether he screamed the word or thought it, but with every molecule of his being he said yes.   
  
An instant later he was blinded by a light so bright and dense he could almost touch it, the struck bell sound ringing out into his fingertips, down to his toes. He felt everything and nothing, all at once, and quite suddenly he was looking through eyes that, for the time being, were no longer his. The world seemed distant, and he felt the raw crackling power of the Archangel coursing through him, pushing him back, down into himself. Into a warmth, something gold and vast and welcoming that he recognised as his own soul.   
  
He let it envelop him, and just for a moment he forgot himself. He forgot where he was and what was happening. He was within it somehow, a self within a self, conscious in a way he could never have imagined. Even now, he could barely comprehend it. He looked at his soul and his soul looked back. He was and was beyond, was within and without and all. He saw all the moments that had shaped him, stitched into the brightness of his being, not in images but in feelings, and he knew them all. There was _protect Sam_ and _memories of Mom and Dad_ and _music_ and _fireworks_ and _love_ and _dying_ and _Bobby._ And he saw where his soul had been broken, where it had been pressed back together with something glowing, pale and blue. The pale blue light drew him in, and he knew it, knew it like his soul knew it. He knew it was grace.  He saw the moment it had woven into his being as he had been saved, knew it as the part of his soul that whispered _love, love, love_ , wrapped around it and thought, _Castiel_. He was overwhelmed.

_You are safe. Do not fear._

The words seemed distant, yet they came to him from so near. They pulled him back for a moment, and he remembered where he was. What was happening. He heard his own voice, then.

"Lucifer, what has happened to you?"

He sounded concerned.

 _Kill him!_ Dean screamed with every fiber of his being, but Michael paid him no attention.

  
Lucifer looked at his hands, the skin blistered and crackling.

"Nick is not doing so well. I cannot heal. There was an... incident. An unwilling vessel."  
  
"You are weakened."  
  
"Considerably."  
  
 _Kill him! Kill him now!_

Michael stepped toward Lucifer, raising his hand. Relief overcame Dean for an instant, but when the fingers brushed over Lucifer's forehead, the gesture was tender. Michael lowered his hand and stepped back.

"I will not fight you like this. It would not be just."  
  
"Thank you, brother."

They sat down.   
  
The amber glow that was Dean Winchester clouded over muddy gray, and he felt himself fading.

* * *

  
It was well past dark, and Castiel was visibly edgy. Bobby was ninety percent certain that he hadn't moved from his self-appointed post at the window in close to four hours, and had left him moments earlier to make the third pot of bitter coffee.  
  
Outside the low hum of insects lifted on the damp night air, and Castiel kept his eyes trained on the tree line, just barely visible through the gaps between cars. With restless fingers he drummed his thigh absently, his jaw tense and twitchy.  
  
Bobby walked back into the room with two steaming mugs and settled them on the table, hot liquid sloshing over his hand in the process. He swore under his breath. At the sound, Castiel glanced back at him.

"He's been gone too long."

Bobby wiped his hands clean on his flannel shirt and shook his head.

 

"Way I see it, the apocalypse hasn't started, so he must be okay," he reasoned, "Right?"

Castiel turned back to the window, chewing on the inside of his lip. Bobby felt the anxiety rolling off him.

"Cas?"

"Something's gone wrong."  
  
"Give him time, he'll be--"  
  
"It's been hours, Bobby. I'm going."

 

Moving away from the window, he began to rifle through the drawers of Bobby's desk. He found a pocket knife and shoved it into his jeans. Bobby stared at him.

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

"Yes."

  
His voice was matter of fact, and he moved a pile of books from atop an old chest to dug through the contents. A frustrated huff, just this side of a growl, escaped his lips when he couldn't find what he was looking for. He looked back at Bobby for the first time, and the hunter had the feeling that if Castiel had still been an angel, this would have been the moment to shield his eyes from the blast.

"Where is it?"

Bobby raised his hands in confusion.

"What d'you--?"

  
As Bobby spoke, Castiel glanced around the room and saw it, sitting on a bookshelf by the wall. A jar of holy oil. He picked it up and shook it beside his ear; there wasn't much, but it would do. 

  
He held out a hand toward Bobby.

"Matches."  
  
"No."

 

He scanned the room again. A half-empty match-book on the coffee table, and he jammed it into his pocket with the knife before storming out of the house, heading for the woods. 

 

Bobby was hot on his tail.

"Wait!"

  
Castiel ignored him, his strides long and purposeful as his feet crunched down on the gravel. Bobby ran to keep up, but his legs failed him. He shouted out again.

"What the hell are you planning to do?"

Castiel's eyes shifted guiltily.

 

"Anything I can."

 

"You'll get your fool ass killed."

Pausing to look back at him, Castiel gave Bobby a weary smile.

 

"Then I'll see you on the other side"

  
With that, he turned and sprinted into the trees. Bobby watched him go, then, grudgingly made his way back inside.   
  
On his desk, the book of Enochian magic lay open, though he knew he'd closed it. With a quick glance over the page, Bobby felt his heart clench in his chest.

"You _stupid_ sonofabitch."

 

* * *

  
Trees hung low, branches scraping his arms and pulling in his hair as he made his way through the woods. He was close to blind, the pale moonlight barely making its way through the thick canopy above, but pressed on at a near run. After almost an hour, his legs lactic and wobbly from the exertion, lungs burning with every breath, he slowed his pace. The ache in his limbs told him to stop. He gritted his teeth and kept moving forward.  
  
When he finally heard Dean's voice in the near distance, his first instinct was to break into a run, but all at once he noticed that the inflection was all wrong. Dean's vocal cords, but not his voice. Not his words. 

_Michael_ , he realized, and felt his mouth go dry. 

  
He paused, trying to see through the gaps in the trees, but the strain on his eyes was fruitless. The world was cast in black and grey, and he cursed his mortal eyes as he moved blindly forward, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as softly as possible. His fear rose to a fever pitch as he approached, and all at once he found himself on the edge of a clearing, bathed in moonlight.   
  
At the center stood Michael.   
  
He wore Dean's skin too stiffly, held his neck too straight. His movements were too precise, too slow, and Castiel felt a surge of anger at the sight. He watched as Michael walked, and suddenly saw who he was talking to. Lucifer, perched on a tree stump in his damaged vessel, completely at ease.  
  
They were not fighting.  
  
Castiel crouched down in the trees, placing the jar of holy oil on the dirt as he pulled the knife and matches from his pocket.  
  
It was going to be painful, but Dean would be safe. He repeated it in head head like a mantra.

_Dean will be safe, Dean will be safe._

  
It was similar to the banishing spell he'd used in Van Nuys, only with the added holy fire burning into the sigil on his chest, this would blast any angels out of their vessels before it sent them back into the ether. He didn't think about the pain.  
  
He hoped he wasn't too late.  
  
He unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, keeping one eye trained on the Archangel and the devil as he carefully carved a complex sigil into his chest. The blade caught on the edges of the scar there, overlapping it in places and veering off in others, and he felt the blood run freely. His heart was racing, pushing his blood from him too quick, and he felt dizzy as he turned the knife to his left hand to cut a second sigil into the palm.  
  
Without delay he picked up the jar of oil, dipping his fingers into it and tracing over both sigils. One deep breath in and he was back on his now slightly unsteady feet, pulling a match from the cardboard. As he moved to strike it and step out into the clearing, he heard the crunch of leaves behind him.

* * *

  
There was something moving toward him. Dean could feel it. No. No. Not Dean. Not the soul. The other part. The pale blue light. The grace. It was reaching out as much as it could, testing the boundaries. There was something. Dean felt it. No. Not Dean. Not Dean. He tried to catch hold of the feeling, but everything was fluid, slipping, slipping. Everything dripped away, slipped through his fingers like sand, like water, like the pale blue light, the pale blue light that reached, reached out toward... what? The thing. The moving thing. The moving soul. Soul. The murky gray of his universe pulsed gold for a moment, and Dean had a second of clarity. He was trapped. A soul in a shell being used by someone. Someone else. Someone wrong. Michael. Archangel. Michael. Michael was... the gray returned. Dean was lost, but where? Something was moving out in the dark. Outside of this place. Beyond. The pale blue light could sense it. It reached out, flickered. A pulse of gold. Another. Another. Not something. _Someone_. The pale blue light reached out. Someone. Beloved. Blessed. _Love, love, love_ , it said. _Castiel_ , it said. The pale blue light glowed brighter, and Dean remembered. He remembered. The swirling mass of gold grew stronger. The pale blue light sang. And now he could feel it, too. _Love, love, love_ , the pale blue light sang, and the gold sang back. It was helping, stretching out toward Castiel, out there, somewhere, searching. _Love, love, love_ , it said, and then Castiel was gone. The gray started to seep back in, a dark cloud around the edges of reality, but the gold pushed back. The pale blue light was singing. The gold was singing. _Love, love, love_ , it sang, _Castiel_ , it whispered. And Dean knew. He knew. He knew.

* * *

  
Gabriel's hand covered his mouth before he had a chance to react, and a split second later he was back in Bobby's kitchen, stumbling as he dripped blood and oil all over the tile. He dropped the book of matches. Bobby stood in the doorway, and when he saw the state of Castiel he hurried forward to help him stand. His voice was gruff and concerned, and just like Dean, he tried to pass it off as anger.

"What in the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Castiel ignored him, looking at Gabriel.

  
"Take me back."

Gabriel made no response, and Castiel advanced on his brother as Bobby spoke.

  
"Of all the stupid things--"  
  
"TAKE ME BACK, _NOW_."

The fury there would have cowed any man, but Gabriel stood his ground.

"No."

Gabriel touched his forehead and the cuts on his chest and hand healed. Castiel gritted his teeth.

"They aren't fighting, Gabriel."

The archangel let out a huff and sat down.

 

"Funny how Michael only seems to have honor when it's convenient. Can't close the deal on Lucifer until the little bastard's in fighting shape, but you can bet your baby blues that he'd have taken me out without a second thought," Gabriel shook his head, "Sometimes I wonder what our Father sees in him."

 

Bobby crossed his arms, looking between them.

 

"What do you--?"

Gabriel tapped his temple.

"Been listening in. Michael's refusing to fight Lucifer while he is weakened. He wants a fair fight. Dean didn't have time to negotiate terms, and Michael's not leaving."

  
Castiel's mind was racing. Every minute that Michael walked around in Dean's skin, Dean was slipping further away. An archangels power was too much for a human body, and strong as Michael was, Castiel was not convinced that he'd be able to destroy Lucifer once he had his strength back. Gabriel's words had done nothing but tell him his plan had been their best shot.  
  
His voice dropped low, imploring, as he addressed his brother.

"Please, Gabriel. You have to take me back," he begged, "Please. I can stop this."  
  
"No, Castiel. You can _postpone_ this. That's all. And you'll die in the process."

 

"Dean will be _lost_ , Gabriel."

His voice broke, and Gabriel laid a hand on his shoulder. Castiel searched his face, looking for some sign of acquiescence.

"Gabriel--"

  
"No, Castiel. I'm not taking you back there so you can kill yourself."

With a guilty look toward Bobby, Castiel opened his mouth to deny Gabriel's words, but Bobby spoke before he could.

  
"Don't. I saw the spell, Cas. I wasn't born yesterday, so don't try to convince me that you didn't know what it would do to you. If you didn't bleed to death first, the fire trauma would have done it," he shook his head, "Don't you think there's already been enough pointless death this week?"

 

"If I can save Dean, it's not pointless. More people need him than need me. It's a purely logical solution, so--"  
  
"You know, for someone who's been around since the dawn of time, you can be a real fuckin' moron, Castiel."

He snapped his mouth shut, taken aback as Bobby stepped right up into his space, practically spitting the words at him.

"You know how much use Dean would be if he lost you as well as his brother? He'd be catatonic whether he'd had an Archangel-administered lobotomy or not. I'd be surprised if he didn't drink himself to death within a month."

Bobby's voice dropped and he stepped away, composing himself. He looked at the floor for a moment, rubbing a hand through his beard as he spoke.

  
"Gabriel's right. You can't do this," he glanced back at Castiel with a threat in his eyes, "I'll lock you in the panic room if you try."

Castiel didn't get a chance to reply. A low rumble in the distance shook the glass in the windows, and they stood up to look out into the darkness.  
  
Far off in the clearing, a single pillar of light shot into the sky. For a split second, Castiel felt a sharp pain splitting through the center of his chest.  
  
And then, he didn't feel a thing. 


End file.
